


Starlight in the Sun: The Rest of Her Story

by MagnificentNorth



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Courage, Crisis of Faith, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Family, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Love, Post-Prince Caspian, Romance, Separations, Slow Burn, at least for the most part, but fair warning, suspian, there are some small details that i’ve manipulated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-05 19:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 27,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13394265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagnificentNorth/pseuds/MagnificentNorth
Summary: "She turned and began to perceive. Sunlight soaked the air and sank into stone. A radiant alabaster hall materialized. Cair Paravel."Susan and Caspian, both shaken after the events of the Pevensies' second trip to Narnia, reencounter each other in dream. As Susan endures the Second World War and Caspian continues his reign in Narnia, they are left to pick up the pieces of their hearts and their faith. Their story continues.





	1. MEMORY

**Author's Note:**

> I've always enjoyed the romance that develops between Susan and Caspian in the Prince Caspian film (2008) and finally, my irritation/dissatisfaction with their ending compelled me to continue their story on my own. My interest in Susan's character journey (especially her eventual loss of faith) quickly began to seep into my writing, and so this project developed into an effort to tell the rest of Susan's story as it might have played out. 
> 
> While Susan is the main character, the narrative also spends significant time with Caspian as his life progresses.

_An account concerning Susan Pevensie, once called the Gentle Queen, and King Caspian the Tenth of Narnia._

-

As an aspiring journalist, fantasy was not a subject Susan Pevensie dealt with much. Facts were her medium of choice, and she had a skill for discerning truth from even the murkiest of stories. Logic was her tool; ink was her weapon. Fairy stories remained sidelined in favor of documenting all the grime of reality.

But Narnia filled her memory. The visceral potency of the experience lingered, defying the expanse of fifteen months, as if she had reemerged from the wardrobe only moments ago. The edges between crisp, functioning thought and waking dream blurred. Her fingers hammered the typewriter keys in a clacking cacophony, metal striking metal with merciless accuracy. If she closed her eyes, Susan knew she’d be there again; blazing red and gold pennants, swollen with breeze, filling the skies, and all around, the glint of swords and shields. The Telmarines advanced, but Caspian stood with Narnia. 

She struck the period key. An enemy catapult hurtled into the archer’s ledge, sabotaging the rock beneath her feet. Susan fell. She knew Caspian’s eyes were on her as she lurched down the rock face, smashing hard into a lucky outcropping. She knew they lingered before he was forced to turn and parry a sword blow. She watched him until the battle consumed him.

Blinking, Susan shook herself and read the last line she had typed. 

_I wish we had more time together._

With an involuntary shudder tensing her skin, she reached for the correction fluid.

-

The wars had been finished years ago. Narnian peace was secured and the battlefields had permanently darkened. From the giants in the north to the kingdoms of men in the south, all recognized the new strength of a sovereign Narnia and the authority of her king.

Caspian X paced the hallways of his castle. The years of peace were a time for rejoicing and ease, but not all would grant the king such luxury. Caspian resolutely dodged advisors, councilmen, and courtiers as he prowled the stone corridors – retreating to his chambers would only provide them with a stationary target. Unceasingly they pressured him (through both direct and indirect means) to take a bride, like cats swatting at a captive mouse. The kingdom must have an heir, and therefore the king must have a wife – no matter how unwilling he might be.

The castle was the mouse’s cage, so he let his restless steps wander. His feet took him to the courtyard, and beyond into the town square, where a twisted tree balanced on the edge of a cliff. Caspian stopped short as an ache began to knot his stomach. 

He hadn’t meant to come here. 

No, not to this place. Not here, where he had found her and lost her all in the same moment.

She wore blue. That day, he remembered that her gown was blue. But the gleam of its fabric could never match the luster of her eyes.

-

Susan was weary. She let her head fall against the pillow, her body slump into the welcoming curves of the mattress, and beckoned sleep forward from the crevices of her mind. The ache had not been so pronounced since the weeks immediately after she left him. She held the memory of Caspian close, at the forefront of her thinking, but her thoughts roamed. 

There were so many kinds of love she had known in Narnia, not just Caspian’s. She had learned about deep and true friendship, witnessed it between the unlikeliest of beings, from dwarves and badgers to fauns and humans. Susan and her brothers and sister had learned how to be a family; how to forgive, how to cherish one another, and how to rejoice in the unique communion of siblings. 

And there was Aslan. How Susan yearned for Him. She tried to believe His words; that He was present on Earth as well as in Narnia, only known by another Name. But she struggled to reach Him from within her daily English existence. There was no wonder for her here. Every day in Narnia, Susan had been able to set aside the cynicism and skepticism so embedded in her nature; she had been able to embrace marvels, because there, magic was tangible and omnipresent. 

There was no magic in wartime England.

Slowly, Susan let herself sleep, longing for the realm where trees breathed, Aslan smiled, and Caspian ruled.

-

Caspian inhaled deeply; the night air was dusty with starlight. Somewhere, across time and space, he knew Susan lived. A Queen of Old, studied and revered and folded irrevocably into Narnian myth, was still alive. He wondered how she passed her days on Earth… His thoughts began to wander dangerously close to the ache.

How strange to love a legend.

With a low growl of irritation, he let his head fall back and tried to the count the stars. Surely there were millions in the dazzling echelons of heaven, enough to distract his mind from the endless questions and the maddening absence of answers. Again, he considered the cruelty of their love, corrupted as it was by the distance of worlds. 

But then he remembered her, and the resentment eased. Pain today was made worthwhile by having known her at all. His Susan – gentle but strong, beautiful but fierce.

The emotion stewed in such a heavy brew that Caspian seemed to absorb it. He felt the weight of emptiness and wished he could foist it onto the stars. Exhausted, he turned towards his bed and the sweet relief of sleep.

-

Susan sensed her consciousness resurfacing from the deepest tracts of slumber, pulling her into a hazy dream. Somewhere in her mind, a voice, laced with the thrums of a purr, spoke.

_“A gift, beloved.”_

She turned and began to perceive. Sunlight soaked the air and sank into stone. A radiant alabaster hall materialized. Cair Paravel.

-

Caspian emerged into a dream. The heaviness of sleep simmered through his body, yet his mind was alert. He stood in a cavernous hall filled with light, its white stone amplifying the sunrays into a nearly blinding glare. Squinting, he turned.

Caspian’s gut jerked and rolled painfully; his heart forgot its rhythm. He gazed in silent disbelief as the flesh in his throat grew suddenly taut.

She wore blue.


	2. THE DREAM

“Susan?” 

His voice flared loud in the chamber, pulsing down the walls. 

She spun as every nerve in her body tightened. Instinctively, she tried not to believe, tried to avoid reencountering the pain. Because this couldn’t be real, could it? How could a dream, constructed and molded inside her mind, possibly be real?

But there he was, striding towards her in a silver tunic and black boots. In his eyes, she read the spectrum of emotion. Pain. Joy. Fear. Wonder.

Just as she had when she first entered Narnia through the wardrobe, she whispered, “ _Impossible_.”

She stared, her face a plane of blank amazement, and still, Susan did not let herself believe. She took a tentative step forward and almost choked on his name. “Caspian?”

Caspian was running now, his eyes wide, as if she were a setting sun about to be lost over the horizon. His footsteps echoed wildly through the hall as he shouldered past the slanting sunbeams. This time he yelled outright. “ _Susan_!” 

And then they were together, a tangle of hands and breaths and tears. Blue eyes met brown and Susan half-laughed, half-sobbed as she touched his face. “I thought you were lost… I thought you were lost forever…”

Caspian nearly laughed, but his throat constricted. Wordless, he hugged her with such ferocity that she could hardly breathe. Burying his face in her hair, he whispered, “My heart was never lost.” 

She hugged him back, tightening the embrace. Not needing to speak, they stood in each other’s arms for their own little eternity, alone in the splendor of Cair Paravel. Against his chest, Susan listened to the steady pounding of Caspian’s heart. Real. Solid. True.

Finally, she raised her head to gaze into Caspian’s eyes. “How is this possible? You’re… you’re a dream.”

His face grew merry. The Telmarine accent was still fused into his words as he spoke. “No, _you_ are the dream; the most beautiful one I’ve ever had.” He stroked her hair as she leaned against him. “How I’ve missed you,” he murmured.

“Well, thirteen hundred years is a long time.” They chuckled at the shared memory.

After a moment, Susan grew serious again. “How long since we left?” she asked, recalling the strange discontinuity of time between their worlds.

Pain dulled Caspian’s voice. “Almost nine years.”

Susan stilled. Just fifteen months she had been back in England, while nine years had accumulated in Narnia. The time felt immense. He had been twenty, twenty-one at most, and she eighteen when they met. Simple mathematics meant he should be nearly thirty now, except… She studied his forehead, the skin at the corners of his eyes, his chin; they all lacked the inset furrows of age. 

“You haven’t grown any older.”

His brow contracted. Briefly, he inspected his hands, felt his face, and then smiled again. “Another gift of this blessed dream.”

“So it would seem.” She smiled back.

Caspian tucked her arm under his own, pressing his hand over hers. “Will you walk with me?”

“Of course.”

Together, they set off down the hall. It was a vast chamber that seemed to be made entirely of alabaster. Massive columns stretched to support a distant ceiling. On the right side were windows, one between every pair of columns, that overlooked a glistening sea. On the other was a blank wall; the flood of sunbeams ricocheted off it and away into space. The entire hall, awash as it was in white light, gleamed with a blinding, ethereal beauty. Cair Paravel was not only restored from its ruins, but more magnificent than Susan had ever remembered.

She suspected it was particularly glossy under the veneer of the dream.

Eventually, Caspian spoke. “In your world – what do you call it? Earth? – how long has it been?”

“Fifteen months.” They reached a low dais at the far end of the hall, occupied by four vacant thrones, and sat on its edge.

“And how have you passed those months? Are you well?”

“Yes... I think. I write about what happens in our society – or at least, I’m in training to. It’s called journalism. One reports on wars and politics and people, and how they affect us all.” 

Caspian paused, then smiled slightly in bemusement. “But why? Those things change constantly. Why not write tales – ones that can withstand the passing of ages?”

Susan’s eyes darkened. “Because people don’t need fantasy; they need facts. They need to know about the opinions of our leaders, about the actions of other nations, about victories and losses…” She trailed off, thinking of the war, and typewriter keys clanging like swords on shields. She shook her head. “Let’s just say that Earth is a good deal more complicated than Narnia.”

“Fantasy is powerful,” said Caspian thoughtfully. “Stories, tales, myths… they can give hope in dark times. Consider your own legend. Without it, Narnia might have succumbed entirely to her Telmarine oppressors.”

“It helped that the legend came to life,” Susan said dryly. “We were real. They could actually see us. Follow us.”

“But for all the centuries before you returned,” Caspian countered, “they had only faith to help them survive my ancestors’ cruelty. The Narnians were persecuted and subjugated, beaten down like dogs. For thirteen hundred years, they drew strength from the legend of Aslan and the Kings and Queens of Old. And they endured.”

Susan shrugged. For once, she was not in the mood to argue a point. She turned to survey the thrones. Her gaze settled on the one she had once occupied. Her mind mixed legend with memory.

Caspian nudged her with his shoulder. “What are you thinking?” he asked softly.

She was quiet, staring at her throne. The white marble was inset with gold. “It’s just…. hard,” she said finally. “Remembering what I used to be.” 

Aslan’s voice echoed in her memory. _To the radiant southern sun, I give you Queen Susan the Gentle._ Her face remained impassive as she corrected herself. “ _Who_ I used to be.”

She heard Caspian swallow hard. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. She understood everything he meant.

After a long moment of contemplation, he said, “In the legends, it says that Aslan made a proclamation at your coronation. Do you recall?”

How could she forget? “Once a King or Queen of Narnia, always a King or Queen,” Susan murmured, her eyes never leaving the empty throne.

Caspian took her hand. “Yes. You are still a queen. You will always be a queen.”

Warmth blossomed deep in Susan’s chest. Smiling, she leaned into Caspian, resting her head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she said softly. 

For a time, they sat in silence, not needing to say anything. Caspian absently ran a thumb across her hand, tracing the bones of her knuckles and the lines in her palms. 

Eventually, Susan asked, “What about you? How fares Narnia?”

Caspian’s mouth tightened. “Narnia is at peace. Her king less so.” He laughed, a scraping sound devoid of any mirth. “Appearances aside, I am nearly thirty. They want me to take a wife.”

It felt like a sucker punch, devastating as any Blitzkrieg bomb. Raising her head, she asked, “Who, precisely, are ‘they’?” 

“My advisors. The gentry. Old men who erroneously try to command a king.” 

“Caspian…” She took a breath to steady herself. “They cou– ”

Perhaps he heard something in her voice. His head whipped around. “I won’t. I can’t.” He grabbed her hand, his countenance fierce. “Not if she isn’t you.”

Susan felt a blush begin to glow faintly under her cheeks. She raised his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss onto his knuckles. 

“And I would,” she whispered as his other hand came up to stroke her hair. She met his blazing eyes. “I would marry you.”

“Then that is all – ”

“Caspian.”

Her tone silenced him instantly. She took a steadying breath. 

“Caspian, please listen to me.” He started to protest, but she raised her free hand gently. “Logically, it makes sense for your advisors to insist upon a marriage. You know Narnia is never right except when a Son of Adam is king.” 

With effort, she made her tone resolute. “You must continue your line. You must marry.”

(Privately, she could barely believe she had said the words.)

Caspian was silent, so Susan willed herself to go on, to keep arguing the logical choice. 

“You will condemn Narnia to war and division if you die without an heir. Don’t let everything that we fought for dissolve!” 

She looked at him evenly, but her voice shook as she delivered the final blow. 

“Marry. Marry with my blessing.”

Caspian’s eyes were black. He stood roughly, taking several unsteady steps away from her. 

“Nine years.” His voice was hoarse. “Nine years I’ve waited. Nine years I’ve longed for you. Nine years I’ve petitioned Aslan for mercy, and all that time refused the idea of marriage –” his voice escalated to a shout “– because I was hoping for a miracle!” 

He spun, and Susan saw the tears across his face. 

“And now, when the miracle comes, when we are together again – ” he nearly choked on a dry laugh. Bitterly, he spat the last words. “Now, you tell me to marry.”

Susan could feel the tears building but her reflexive logic would not be dissuaded. 

“This is a dream, Caspian,” she said quietly. “Nothing more. Regardless of what we both want – ” and here, finally, her voice broke, “ – _how_ could I possibly be the one to marry you?”

“Because I love you!” he thundered.

The tears spilled over as Susan watched his passion – a nature so unfamiliar to her – rage against the reality she had never forgotten.

Would she love him if he did anything else? 

“Yes,” she said at length. “And I you. But there is no logic in emotion. It changes nothing. We are still bound to different times and different worlds. Bound to this dream. And we control none of it.”

The ensuing silence was deadly. Fighting her tears, Susan rose, reaching out to him. He clutched her, his body shaking. There were no words she could say, no comfort she could offer. Dreams are inevitably doomed to end, and no number of wishes can save them.

Pressed into Caspian’s shoulder, she was suddenly compelled. Barely thinking, just as it had been on her last day in Narnia, Susan kissed him. She tasted salt and sweetness. He returned the kiss with fervor, pulling her into him, weaving his hands into her hair. Her heartbeat accelerated furiously, and her body learned the contours of his. The embrace was slow and tender, charged with controlled desperation. It was the loveliest moment Susan had ever experienced until –

A roar reverberated through stone, and she awoke.


	3. WAKING UP

Susan came hurtling back into the real world with the force of a wayward ball crashing through a window. Her eyes flew open as she let out a strangled scream.

Frantic, she kicked against the blankets to fling herself into a sitting position, eliciting a terrific squeal from the metal bed frame. Her chest heaved with noisy gasps, heart beating wildly. Her blood shuddered under the weight of its pulse.

A light switch clicked. Blankets rustled. Susan buried her head in her hands as the footsteps padded towards her, trying to forget the dream.

“Susan? What’s happened?” Lucy’s hand was light on her hunched back, rubbing gently. 

Susan squeezed her eyes shut into her palms, fiercely trying to settle her breathing. She gritted her teeth against the pain of reality, the pain of being wrenched away from him _again_.

“Susan?”

A single thought dominated, reverberating against the inside of her skull. _She couldn’t tell Lucy._ Not Lucy, whose faith was so light, whose sense of wonder was so untainted, and whose belief in Aslan was so absolute.

“ _Susan_?” Lucy’s voice echoed through her spinning thoughts, the tone more urgent now.

Susan felt the acid burn of anger spread through her stomach. Even now, back on Earth, having been pulled from Narnia twice, Lucy kept that unconditional trust. She never doubted that she would go back again one day. 

Lucy’s conviction had helped her avoid the all-consuming sense of futility and despair that had so plagued her siblings upon their last return. And now more than ever, as she felt the wound reopened, Susan hated her for it. 

Every time Narnia sucked them away and spat them out again, Lucy leaned effortlessly on her faith while Susan painstakingly fit her world back together with practicality and logic. Every time, as Susan scrambled to relearn who she needed to be, Lucy was defiant; she quietly refused to relinquish her identity as the Valiant Queen. Worse, she was untroubled by her defiance. She was joyful, purposeful, and she searched for Aslan.

_“Why? Why do you try so hard?” Susan had asked one sunny Sunday afternoon, when Lucy was just coming back from church._

_Lucy smiled as she hung up her hat. “Because I believe He can be found.”_

_“Then why can’t I find Him?”_

_“Maybe you aren’t looking.”_

The memory stung. No, Susan couldn’t tell her.

Narnia was too easy for Lucy. 

“Susan, please.” Lucy was shaking her now. “Are you all right?”

Susan raised her head and felt a warm film of tears on the heels of her palms where she had pressed them into her eyes. The anger piqued.

“I’m fine!” Susan was almost shouting, her voice tremulous. “Just a nightmare.” For that was what it had become. A dream gone bad, like spoiled milk, like rotten fruit. 

Like starlight soured by sun.

Lucy’s hand still traced gentle circles of pressure on Susan’s back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Just go back to bed, Lucy!”

The hand froze. Lucy drew back quickly, her face ashen. “I’m… sorry.”

Susan lay down again, turning her back to her sister, and let the silent tears overflow, hot and messy. Thoughts of Caspian threatened to overwhelm her.

Lucy padded away.

-

Caspian awoke in a cold sweat, fists clenched in his sheets, breaths coming unevenly. His chamber was dark. It was still deep night, and Narnia was _cold_.

Sitting up, he traced the wrinkles that had returned to his forehead. His body shook with barely-controlled emotion. He threw off the blankets and rose to pace furiously, running his hands through his hair. Its length reached the tops of his shoulders, brown strands again diluted with silver.

His steps were harried, directionless. There was no goal, no purpose, only energy. It was energy that he must draw away from his mind, away from the memory of her cruel words, away from visions of her anguished eyes, or he would surely break. 

_He must focus. Only motion, no thought…_

But he snapped anyway. 

With a yell, he reached for the nearest object in sight – a stately Dwarvish vase – and threw it with all his strength. It hit the opposite wall and shattered fantastically. Glittering shards flew across the room like tiny obsidian knives. 

Unthinking, Caspian seized anything he could. Cushions, paintings, ink bottles, chairs, even his own bust – they all went hurtling through space.

By the time the castle guard arrived, the chamber was unrecognizable. Every window had been punctured with a fist. Pillows were shredded and vomiting feathers. The floor was piled with wreckage, and the walls stood naked, save only for a single painting of Aslan at the Stone Table. Caspian stood amidst it all, another object clutched in his raised fist, ready to continue his destruction.

“Sire?”

Caspian jumped. He looked at them with wild eyes.

“Sire, are you injured?”

 _So much energy expended…_

Caspian panted as he tried to regain control. It was wholly inappropriate for the guards – or anyone – to see their king in the throes of such passion. Silently, Caspian cursed himself. 

After a moment, he straightened and nodded to the guards. “Thank you for your concern, gentlemen. I am quite well.” 

He paused to command the authority of a king into his voice. “You will not repeat what you have seen tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” was the swift reply. 

Caspian breathed deeply. It was enough.

“Leave me.”

With a salute, they exited briskly, pulling the door closed behind them.

Caspian deflated with his next exhale, all the anger expelled, like burning oil off the surface of water. All that was left was the expanse of his pain. 

Waves upon waves of pain.

He walked to the balcony, vaguely aware that he still held something, having been about to repurpose it into a projectile. Caspian glanced down and recognized the wood case which protected his most treasured possession. Leaning on the railing, he raised the lid and stared at Queen Susan’s horn. With a shudder, he thanked Aslan he had managed to avoid throwing it.

Caspian fingered the horn, already familiar with every contour of its surface, every scratch, nick, and curve. Susan’s words came back to him. 

_“Keep it. You might need to call me again.”_

He had kept it for nine years.

Caspian closed his eyes, raised the horn to his lips, and blew with all his strength. A wail rose up to the stars.


	4. AMERICA

>   
>  _**Time is** _  
>  _**Too slow for those who Wait,** _  
>  _**Too swift for those who Fear,** _  
>  _**Too long for those who Grieve,** _  
>  _**Too short for those who Rejoice,** _  
>  _**But for those who Love,** _  
>  _**Time is Eternity.** _  
>  **~ Henry Van Dyke**  
> 

The page was dog-eared and wet, bruised by smeared ink. The book splayed flat on her lap, spine broken. A pallid afternoon light struggled to penetrate the windowpane.

“Susan? Come help set the table, will you, dear?”

Susan blinked. “Coming, Mother.” 

But she did not move immediately. Instead, she stared out into a gray oblivion of English fog. It lay in flat heaps against the buildings of Finchley, smoothing their unyielding facades and obscuring the damages of war. She longed to sink into its cold, bland neutrality. No passion, no pain, only stillness. 

_She had performed with so much conviction for Caspian in the dream… so where was it now?_

Susan let her head rest against the window. The glass was chilled like frozen steel.

“Susan? I won’t ask again.”

Susan sighed. Gingerly, she drew the poetry book closed and searched for the will to fight the lethargy. It gnawed with dull, hard teeth at the edges of her mind, at her tired heart.

With effort, she stood and made her way to the dining room. Lucy had already begun laying places; six glasses and six plates sat proudly on a powdery blue table cloth. 

“Just the cutlery then?” Susan asked.

“Yes, that’s right.” Lucy glanced up from folding a napkin. Her eyes lingered on Susan’s haggard face.

Hurriedly, Susan turned toward the kitchen. She collected the necessary utensils and distributed them around the table robotically, every movement measured with the mindless familiarity of a task done many times before. She could sense Lucy silently watching her. 

Just as Susan was situating the last fork alongside a plate, a noise rustled in the hallway. A door slammed and heavy, uneven footfalls approached the dining room. 

“Watch it, Ed! You’re gonna break something!”

“Technically, if you hit it, then you’re the one who’s broken it.”

Susan’s two brothers stumbled into the dining room, their faces flushed and merry. Edmund, she saw now, was gripping Peter in an unforgiving headlock.

“Ed - ! Hey!” Peter swayed dangerously towards a glass display cabinet as he fought for balance. 

Lucy laughed. “Where have you two been all day?”

Peter pushed at Edmund’s locked arm, eyes dazzling. The answer was stilted. “Sword fights.” He managed to smile despite his gritted teeth. “In the park. Don’t tell – ”

Edmund adjusted his hold.

“Don’t tell – ”

Edmund laughed exultantly and said in a muted tone, “He means don’t tell Mum.”

“Right,” Lucy said.

There was a brief scuffle as Peter finally succeeded in breaking Edmund’s grip. “HA!” His voice was triumphant. “Guess you’re not as strong as you thought!”

Edmund shrugged, his grin smug. “Guess you’re not as fast as you thought.”

Peter chuckled and gave his brother a playful shove. Susan turned away, a pain in her chest.

“Peter? Edmund?” Their mother came in from the kitchen. Seeing her sons, she sighed exasperatedly. “How many times must I tell you – no wrestling indoors!”

“Sorry, Mum,” they chorused, completely failing to look abashed.

“Sit, all of you,” she said. “Your father will be home any minute.”

Susan slid wordlessly into her place at the dinner table. Lucy sat next to her and Peter opposite. Mirthful conversation came easily between her siblings, but Susan stayed silent. What was the point of forcing out simplistic, meaningless chatter? She stared dully at her lap. The ache inside sucked at her energy, like water spiraling down a drain.

_She had lost Narnia. She had lost Caspian. She had lost them both. She had lost it all._

_Again._

As Susan contemplated the plaid weave of her skirt, a small hand tentatively reached out and took hers. Lucy was gentle, but the human touch came like an electric shock. Susan tensed automatically. She glanced at her sister, face carefully masked to guard the turmoil. Lucy gazed back, her expression enigmatic.

 _Could she have somehow guessed?_ Susan wondered. But she checked herself. Though Lucy had always been uncannily perceptive, especially when people were hurting, even she could not possibly discern the specifics of Susan’s distress.

Peter was staring at them. He had spent too many years as a king, reading faces in arenas from diplomacy to warfare, to avoid noticing. 

“What is it?”

Susan tugged her hand away and forced herself to meet his eyes. “Nothing.” 

Now Edmund was watching them too, and of Narnia’s four rulers, it was unquestionably he who had been the best diplomat. Susan fidgeted. As a king in the Golden Age, Edmund had specialized in treaty negotiation and political administration. He had diffused the frequent spats with Calormen and managed taxation and infrastructure. Even when they had been thrown back into Narnia a second time, Susan recalled the reports of his savvy handling of King Miraz.

 _Miraz, the fanatic who had very nearly succeeded in destroying the last vestiges of Narnian civilization… Miraz, the false king who had stolen Caspian’s birthright from him…_

Susan bit her lip. Then she met Edmund’s gaze, unblinking. He didn’t flinch.

It was a great relief when another slamming door announced the arrival of their father and dinner began, forcing Edmund to redirect his attention.

The meal was a quiet affair. Simple questions about the day’s happenings were asked and answered. Susan spoke only when asked a direct question; the lethargy would permit nothing further.

As she was finishing her last bite of cauliflower, her father cleared his throat. “Children, I…. I have some news.”

The table stilled as utensils were set down. Susan looked toward her father, noticing new wrinkles around his eyes. His work for the war effort was wearing on him. How different he was now from the warm, affectionate man who had raised her – so wearied and drawn.

“Your mother and I have already discussed it, and arrangements have been made.” His tone made clear there would be no questioning his decision. He made eye contact with each of his children as he continued. “I have been offered a position in the United States. Covert war operations with our American allies.”

His words collided with a stunned silence. After a moment, their mother smiled, her voice encouraging. “Come now, children. Congratulate your father.”

Peter was first. “Congratulations, Father.” He sat perfectly straight, his face impassive, a soldier at attention.

Edmund’s face twisted, as if he was refraining from a snarky comment.

“Where in America, Father?” Lucy asked.

“Boston, Massachusetts. Susan and Peter will accompany your mother and I. Susan, there may be an opportunity for you to pursue journalism there. And Peter - ” he looked to his oldest son “- will enroll at Harvard University this fall to study medicine.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Thank you, sir.” 

Their voices faded to an echo as Susan digested her father’s words. 

_America_. It rang in her ears like a promise. It swelled inside her like the clear cry of Narnian trumpets, gleaming bronze. They had heralded her crowning as the Gentle Queen long ago, and they had been remade thirteen hundred years later for King Caspian the Tenth. Now the memory of them would guide her to America...

No.

The cynicism reasserted itself with a horrid pang.

_No._

The trumpets had only ever preceded pain. They must be left to rust. The crowns must be discarded. Their memory would not be allowed to follow her. They would not be allowed to poison her escape.

She would not think of Narnia. She would not think of Caspian. Why should she ever need to consider them again? They were nothing. Immaterial, inaccessible, non-existent. She would think only of America.

With this new resolve, the haze that had so engulfed Susan’s mind began to dissipate, like dawn burning away a film of mist. All at once, there was possibility. Excitement, even. In America, she could begin again. She could plan an escape. 

She could forget.

Their father was still speaking. “Edmund and Lucy, you will stay in Cambridge with your Aunt Alberta.” 

This elicited a brief choking noise from the end of the table. “Hang on,” said Edmund cautiously, “you don’t actually mean for us to go and live with _Eustace. Clarence. Scrubb_ – ” he chewed out the name as if it was rubbery, overcooked meat “ – do you, Father?”

“That is precisely my intention.”

Susan stifled a giggle, raw and foreign as it bubbled up in her throat. There was an uncomfortable crack as Edmund’s water glass fell to the floor.


	5. THE COUNCIL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter - next one will be longer! Thank you all so much for reading, and for your lovely comments and kudos!

There were mutterings in the room, but to Caspian, it was only a haze of sound.

“Sire?”

They were asking him something. He tried to focus. _Everything hurt… it hurt too much…_

“His Majesty appears exhausted.”

“Sire, do you require a respite?” 

Caspian almost chuckled. 

Nearly four months after encountering Susan in a dream, he no longer slept. The dark smears under his eyes were plain. Sleep only invited hope, and hope itched. It resurfaced constantly to tug at his mind – a brief vision of her in blue that turned his stomach inside out – and it burned all the worse when he swatted it away. After four months of trying, praying every night before he slept, Caspian knew the dream would come not again. Aslan would not offer him a last chance to see her, touch her, hold her. She had been stolen from him a second time, the old wound ripped open. 

So he would not sleep. He would not even think her name. 

He would extinguish hope.

“ _Sire_?”

Caspian blinked, then sighed irritably. “I require no respite, councilman. Continue.”

The councilman also sighed. Evidently, he was repeating himself. “My king, the Narnians grow restless.”

Caspian sniffed. “Indeed.” He was indifferent. He knew he should care. He wanted to care. But caring took too much energy for too little reward. Let the advisory council handle it, whatever the trouble was. 

“I am sure you gentleman are more than capable of rectifying the issue,” he said flatly. They craved power anyway; perhaps this would satiate them for a time.

There were whispers around the table of assembled councilmen before one spoke, his tone delicate. “Your Majesty, regrettably this is not a… _task_ … in which we can assist.” 

“Oh?” Caspian’s tone remained apathetic. Shifting his position on the throne, he forced the words out. “What is this task?”

There was a pause. A different councilman rose. 

“An heir, sire,” he said clearly.

The change was instant. Caspian’s posture stiffened; his eyes snapped into focus, ablaze with indignant fury. “Gentlemen,” he said loudly, “we have discussed this before. I will not – ”

The councilman continued, interrupting his king. “The Narnians yearn to know that your line will continue, and that another Son of Adam will rule when you are gone.”

“How dare you!” Caspian shouted down the table.

A third councilman stood. “He dares because you do not listen, sire. You do not hear us. For ten years you refuse to take a wife, but give us no reason why. When the Kings and Queens of Old left us, you vowed to protect the peace you built. You will not do that if you do not produce an heir.”

Emboldened, other councilmen rose in silent agreement. Soon the entire assembly was standing. Caspian bent his head over the tabletop, letting his hair shield his face. 

The biting, unwelcome truth stung ten times more than the hope he avoided.

The pause that followed was raw and tense, like flesh waiting to be butchered. Every man held a knife, yet no one would cut. The air seemed to tighten when their royal catch – presumed nearly dead – suddenly breathed again. 

“You’re right, you know,” Caspian murmured, almost to himself. He was just loud enough to be heard. “It has been foolish… _reckless_ … of me to postpone it this long… particularly after she gave me her blessing…” 

Confused glances were swapped around the table.

Caspian stood so abruptly that many of the councilmen cowered. 

“Ready the _Dawn Treader_!” he bellowed. “Gather the crew! We sail with the tide.” 

The Council stared at him, their faces amazed, like a many-eyed hunting beast unexpectedly thwarted by its prey.

“ _Your Majesty?_ ” someone asked incredulously. Vaguely, Caspian registered that the Council was gaping at him, their expressions ranging from confusion to abject horror. No doubt many thought their king quite mad. 

Caspian cared little.

“I swore an oath upon my coronation,” he said impatiently. “I swore to Aslan that I would find the seven lost lords of Telmar who were loyal to my father, did I not?”

“You did, sire.”

“And have I fulfilled it yet?”

“No, sire.”

“There you have it. I hereby undertake the quest to find the lost lords. I sail with the tide, and upon my return, I will take a wife. I give you my word.”


	6. VOYAGES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter as promised! Yay! The plot rolls on...

America was a kaleidoscope of choices and movement. It broke up Susan’s old world and sawed through the bars of her personal cage of pain to dazzle her with light and laughter. She felt like a stuffy old house which America had ripped open and infused with fresh summer air. Even under the strain of war, it seemed this country did not know how to be anything other than joyful. 

The opportunity to continue training as a journalist had not yet come to fruition, but Susan hardly cared. There was too much else to do, and most of it involved the Boston social scene. She composed a letter to Edmund and Lucy in Cambridge at the end of her second week.

_Dear Edmund and Lucy,_

_I do wish you were here with us._ (Though in truth, she was glad to be removed from Lucy.) _It is such an adventure - though nothing like our times in Narnia._ (She smiled at how painlessly she could include the reference.) _America is very exciting, only we never see Father. He works so very hard._

_I was invited to the British consul's tea party this week by a naval officer who happens to be very handsome. I think he fancies me._ (Susan fished around for his name, but couldn’t recall. Shrugging, she carried on to her mother’s message.)

_It seems that the Germans have made the crossing difficult right now. Times are hard; Mother hopes you both won't mind another few months in Cambridge._

The doorbell rang. Susan set her letter aside and went to answer it.

A young woman stood on her front step, grinning. She was about Susan’s age, with wavy, flaxen hair and dimpled cheeks. Her slim figure was wrapped in folds of airy white organza that perfectly matched the shade of her hat.

“Like my dress?” A Boston accent added strange contours to her voice. She twirled slowly, letting the material flare. The knee-length skirt flattered her long legs and floated delicately about her waist. The vivacity that surrounded her person was almost palpable as she sashayed dramatically past Susan and into the foyer. 

Susan giggled. “It’s lovely, Blanche.” For no particular reason that Susan could discern other than fascination, Blanche seemed to have taken it upon herself to adopt the reserved English girl who had appeared on the fringes of Boston society in recent weeks. And though they had known each other only a few days, Susan already felt Blanche Meyer settling into her life like a missing puzzle piece. Around her bright spirit, no clouds could sully Susan’s thoughts.

Meanwhile, Blanche’s attention had already shifted. The residue of a smile was still on Susan’s face as Blanche glanced her up and down, swiftly appraising the orange checkered afternoon dress she wore. 

“Um, Susan?” she said uncertainly, eyeing Susan’s stout, brown shoes. “You know Mrs. Marshall won’t let you past the foyer in that.”

Susan blinked. “I forgot. Mrs. Marshall’s party.” 

Blanche’s eyebrows crept closer to her hairline. 

Susan blushed slightly. “I’m new at this!”

Blanche’s eyes narrowed, an indication of supreme annoyance. One eyebrow was now cocked dubiously above the other. 

“Well, there really are quite a lot of invitations!” Susan said defensively. For emphasis, she gestured to a table stacked high with decorative envelopes and calling cards.

Blanche gave her curls a shake and the irritated expression melted away as smoothly as syrup sliding across pancakes. “Susan, you’re too serious! I’m only teasing!” she laughed. Blanche was bouncing on the balls of her feet now. “Well, come on! No time to waste! Let’s get you ready!” She grabbed Susan’s hand and pulled her upstairs.

Blanche was done within half an hour. Susan’s dress was sleeveless, full-skirted, and deep blue, with a high neckline that was undercut by a narrow, vertical slit from collarbone to mid-chest. She had made Blanche keep the make-up light, so her friend had directed most of her creative energy toward Susan’s hair. It was piled atop her head like curling shards of dark chocolate and pinned with pearls.

_I wish Caspian could see me._

Susan grimaced.

“What?” said Blanche, seeing her face. “Don’t you like it?”

Susan mentally squashed the errant thought. “I love it,” she said firmly. She stood and hugged Blanche tightly. “You’re a magician.”

Blanche chuckled, hazel eyes twinkling. “Let’s go then! If we hurry, we won’t be late.”

They hastened downstairs and out into the cobbled streets and hazy skies of Boston. Somewhere Blanche was chattering, and inwardly, Susan smiled to herself. These were the two greatest blessings of America – relentless forward motion and with it, constant preoccupation. America presented so many diversions for the mind that unpleasant memories were by necessity crowded out, and here was another evening that Susan would be guaranteed escape.

-

Islands nailed down the sea as it heaved against the planet. Aggravated by wind, it rolled across the skin of the earth like thick, supple cloth. The waters stewed tempestuously with foamy fingers coyly manipulating the sun. Waves disintegrated into spitting froth when they hit the _Dawn Treader_.

Caspian stood on the starboard deck, face to the horizon. Beneath his boots, the roughened, sea-worn wood of his ship creaked gently. Water had driven creases into her timbers – and already the sun was bleaching her fresh paint – but she remained a sturdy vessel, sure and proud. The dragon’s head at her prow, gleaming in hues of green, red, and gold, had faced the sea many times before. She was, indisputably, the greatest ship since the Golden Age. 

Caspian filled his lungs with the stark marine air, feeling it curl inside him, and a reflexive smile stretched across his face. Sea air was an acidic purifier – it chaffed whatever it touched, but ultimately, it cleansed. It peeled away grim and hardened what was soft. It rejuvenated, but only through pain. There was nothing gentle about its constant, relentless exfoliation and Caspian would have no other method.

Again, he inhaled, tipping his head back to let the sun press against his face. An image materialized behind his closed eyelids, amidst the sun’s residual glare, of a dark-haired, blue-eyed lady. He imagined her at his side, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder. She smiled at him, and he counted the freckles across her nose. He listened to her heartbeat in the wind.

But he let the moment pass. The old ache that followed was vague, barely recognizable, and Caspian pushed it aside easily. He refocused his thoughts into reality, not allowing his conscious mind to consider anything beyond the immediate – the rise and fall of the ocean’s breast beneath his ship, the bustle of his crew, the booted steps crossing the planks towards him… 

“How fares His Majesty?” The voice was low and calm. Lord Drinian, the captain of the _Dawn Treader_ , appeared at his shoulder, blue eyes appraising the horizon. His head had been scraped clean of hair by sea winds and his face was leathery.

“Well,” Caspian said with sincerity. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been able to answer such a question honestly. “The sea is both challenge and distraction – an alluring way to occupy the mind.”

Drinian didn’t miss a beat. “That is also precisely what makes her so lethal.”

“Not sea serpents?” asked Caspian with a smirk.

The captain stiffened, locking his hands behind his back. “Certainly, sire. You would do well to avoid them.”

Caspian chuckled. “Easy enough to avoid tall tales.”

Drinian pressed his lips together. Before he could reply, a bellow came from the crow’s nest, the wind stretching the vowels into a deep roar. 

“MAN OVERBOARD! MAN OVERBOARD OFF THE PORT BOW!”

Caspian didn’t hesitate. He sprinted across the ship, tearing off his jacket as he ran. He let the adrenaline burn through his veins, let the salty air sting in his chest, let movement consume his mind. (Every moment of fresh action reinforced the mental barricade that held her away.)

Seconds later, he was at the railing. Three figures floundered in the churning water below. One of them was screeching so fantastically that he achieved a pitch akin to the yowls of a wet cat.

“You two, with me!” Caspian shouted at the nearest crewmen. Then he dove into the sea. 

Water flared in the corners of his eyes as he broke the surface. He swam towards the screeching with strong, broad strokes. 

“It’s alright! I’ve got you!” he gasped as he reached the first person. He supported the middle of her back, helping her keep her head above water as the waves surged around them. She was small, not a child but not yet an adult.

The girl squirmed briefly before she really looked at him. An instant later, her face split into a massive grin. “Caspian!”

Caspian nearly choked on seawater. “Lucy!”


	7. WAR PAINT

Susan had spent the afternoon out under the sun with Blanche Meyer. She returned to a letter. It was postmarked Cambridge, England. Susan tugged the envelope open and removed the single sheet of paper. The words were a scrawl, as if even the harried, lopsided letters had been commissioned to communicate Lucy’s excitement.

_Dear Susan,_

_You’ll never believe it. **Edmund and I went to Narnia again**. _

_It was a painting this time, in my bedroom at Aunt Alberta’s, of a lovely blue ocean and a single ship. We were just noticing that the ship was very Narnian-looking, and then water started coming out of the canvas. It filled the bedroom and we had to swim for the surface. We came up in the middle of the Eastern Ocean!_

_Caspian was there - he saved us from drowning when we popped up in the sea. It turns out the ship in the painting is his, the_ Dawn Treader. _There has been peace in Narnia for three years, and he was on a quest to find the seven lost lords of Telmar (it’s a long story). We went with him on the most magnificent voyage._

_He asked after you and I told him you were well. He keeps your old bow and arrows in his cabin. (He even had Edmund’s torch - the one he lost when we attacked the Telmarine castle - can you believe it?) In all these years, Caspian still hasn’t found a queen, though I suspect that may change soon. We met a lady called Lilliandil (the daughter of a star) and he seemed very much taken with her. She was very beautiful._

_Anyway, the_ Dawn Treader _sailed far past the Lone Islands and on towards Aslan’s Country. Really, there’s so much to tell; I’ll run out of paper and ink before I’m half done and you know how they’re rationed (and I still have to write to Peter). You’ll just have to convince Mother to bring Ed and I to America so I can tell you all about our adventure._

_Just one more thing though: I don’t think Edmund and I will be going back to Narnia. Aslan told us we had grown up, just like you and Peter. He said that we must learn to know Him by another name in our world. I’m going to keep searching for Him. I hope you will too._

_Love,_

_Lucy_

_P.S. Do you remember our cousin Eustace Scrubb? (I know it’s been ages since you saw him.) Remember how he used to be so awful? Well, he (inadvertently) came with us and is much changed; you would hardly know him now. He spent some time as a dragon, and Reepicheep took quite a fancy to him. I don’t think a longer stay in Cambridge will be too much trouble now._

The letter shook in her hands.

For a moment, Susan didn’t breathe. 

She sat perfectly still, erect in her chair, her face stone. The emotions were a torrent crashing within her, too complex to be deciphered, like trying to untangle the lattice work of a forest canopy. She stared blankly at the vase of orange lilies from a suitor – she couldn’t recall his name – that sat on her desk. She traced the contours of their petals with her eyes, the delicate flare at the tips… She imagined bronze trumpets…

The thought carried her too close to the brink. Desperate, she raked through the details in front of her for something to assess, something to quantify, something that could sit, unabashedly and plainly, in the real world alone. She saw the palm of her left hand resting flat atop the desk, and her crimson nails as they blazed against the dark mahogany wood. She tried to concentrate on their color, the all-consuming red, on fire and ashes… 

But no, it wasn’t good enough. Her mind reeled dangerously. She looked again. There was a little clock, ticking noisily – she focused on letting the sound rage in her ears, a drumbeat, no, a gong, but still, it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t drown out the monotone that filled her head like a wad of cotton. The roar that rebounded in her brain like a vortex sucking, slurping, spinning…

She felt the tension building in her muscles as she forced herself to stay still, stay silent. Her mother was in the next room… she would hear any outburst… Susan glanced across the desk again. There was a photograph of her siblings, but their smiles seemed dull and useless. She saw Lucy’s face and her hands became fists.

The paper buckled. It released a satisfying crunch as it twisted to fit the mold of her clenched fingers. She squeezed it so tightly that the fibers scratched into her skin.

She was bent over the desk now, breathing hard, and still, the torrent went on, indomitable. 

_Narnia had given her siblings one more escapade… Aslan had let them see Caspian again, but not her… And Caspian was moving on…_

How was it that even when he was in Narnia – already physically separated from her – he could leave her again?

And how ironic that she had asked him to.

But she had never anticipated _knowing_. She never anticipated hearing of him again – the activities of this particular king would never be fodder for an English or American newspaper. She could have lived her life refusing to think of him with a wife. By force of will, she could have made that her reality. She could have – maybe, someday – been content with that.

Slowly, carefully, Susan unwrinkled Lucy’s letter, straightening the embedded kinks and warped edges. She read it again, and then a third time, fighting to comprehend the words. To believe them. To accept them.

_This would not end her. ___

__She bowed her head, letting her long, dark curls tumble forward around her face. The tears were white-hot._ _

__Then, with a wordless yell, she ripped the letter in half…_ _

__Into quarters…_ _

__Into eighths…_ _

__There was a knock at the door, followed by her mother’s voice. “Susan? What’s going on?”_ _

__The answering silence rang. Susan straightened. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara and tears like crude war paint. Her eyes were distant, unseeing.  
__

__Narnia had known her as the Gentle Queen. This was the identity Aslan had given her. Assigned to her. But it was not one she had ever chosen._ _

__

__Now, she would choose._ _

__She would no longer be gentle. For the gentlest things are also the most vulnerable, and the most vulnerable things get hurt the worst._ _

__She would never be hurt again._ _

__With calculated movements, Susan stood and walked to the fireplace. She deftly kindled a small blaze, though it was already spring._ _

__The knock became more urgent. “Susan? Are you all right?”_ _

__Susan threw the scraps of Lucy’s letter into the flames. Silently, they dissolved in simmering red. She turned back towards the door._ _

__“Yes. Perfectly.”_ _


	8. THE HEART AND THE MIND

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else has wondered what might have been said between Caspian and Aslan at the end of "Voyage of the Dawn Treader" once Edmund, Lucy, and Eustace have left? Because I definitely have.

Caspian watched as Edmund, Lucy, and Eustace were consumed by water. The portal to their world that Aslan had created collapsed in on itself in a swirl of foam. The wave smoothed back into a glistening turquoise current, the water running upwards in a great, curling wave. Sun and spray danced among Caspian’s hair, and the sweet water mixed with the salt of his tears.

He did not sob, nor cry out in anguish. He simply stood and allowed the tears to come. Caspian was not the same man who had seized upon a quest to flee from a broken, confused heart. No longer would he fear grief, for as he felt it now, the pain of loss only existed symbiotically with peace. With shoulders squared and hands clasped in front of him, he bowed his head.

Mere minutes earlier, Caspian had foregone the one-way journey to Aslan’s country. He recalled his words, his new conviction.

 _“I’ve spent too long wanting what was taken from me, and not what was given. I was given a kingdom; a people…”_

There was so much he left unsaid.

He would always love her; Caspian was reconciled to that. He had loved her from the day they met in the woods. He had loved her through conflict, terror, and triumph. In her eyes he could find the dark side of the moon and in her smile he could see an eclipse of the sun. She was an oxymoron of gentle ferocity and poetic logic. If their worlds could align, and the stars could blur infinity, she was still the one he would choose. 

No such love was easily cast aside, nor did he wish it to be. And there remained a small, defiant corner of his heart that still unabashedly wished for more time with her – another dream, another journey. Perhaps it always would.

But Susan Pevensie had only ever been taken from him.

_“…I promise to be a better king.”_

It was time to release her.

Caspian turned to the immense golden lion standing beside him. Aslan was watching him, His serene topaz eyes full of compassion. Sunlight poured down from a magnificent blue sky unsullied by clouds, and now more than ever, Aslan was radiant. His fur gleamed and His mane was tossed in the breeze like spun gold. His countenance was regal, but His voice was kind.

“You miss her.” It was not a question. The words were weighted with sadness.

Caspian blinked away more tears. “Is there any way to forget?”

“It is not right to forget love, dear one.”

Caspian shuddered. How had he kept his composure so well for Edmund and Lucy? For his crew? He had been a capable, confident sea captain for the duration of the _Dawn Treader_ ’s voyage, easily hiding away his troubled heart in the face of their quest’s trials… until this beach on the brink of Aslan’s country. What was it about standing alone in His presence that left his soul so bare; that dissolved the careful defenses and cast it so naked into the light?

Jaw clenched, Caspian returned his gaze to the shimmering wave and repeated his vow with vehemence. “I _promise_ to be a better king. Narnia deserves a leader who knows his own mind, who can govern his own heart.”

Aslan inclined his head. “Hearts and minds are meant to work in tandem, like the wings of a bird. You must consider both. If they do not serve you, it is because you do not listen. Already, you have been given more than you know.” 

Caspian’s expression turned to bewilderment. “I do not - ”

The thought broke and his eyes widened. Caspian grew very still as the astonishment hit, followed by a kind of wondering disbelief.

“ _Lilliandil_ ,” he breathed.

Aslan’s eyes were warm. “You are offered another chance to love.”

Caspian gazed at Him, a half-smile on his lips, as the realization overwhelmed him. A new infinity beckoned from the dregs of his oblivion. Lilliandil, beautiful Lilliandil, waited for him on Ramandu’s Island. And had he not spoken directly from the heart when he told her, _“I hope we meet again”_?

Caspian smiled fully now. Yes, he would always love Susan, but he could love Lilliandil too. Already, he cared for the celestial maiden who walked in the glow of starlight... 

It was what Susan wanted. 

It was what his kingdom required.

In his moments of contemplative silence, Aslan had turned away from him and was moving down the beach, paralleling the wave that guarded His country. His golden tail swung placidly with His stride.

Watching Him go, Caspian was struck by a sudden, desperate urge to hope that the truth would solidify his newfound peace. He had to know.

“Aslan!” Caspian called.

The lion turned.

“Why?” There was a note of pleading in Caspian’s voice. “Why did You create the dream for us?”

“It was a gift,” He said simply. “Do not forget each other.”

Caspian did not pause to consider the cryptic response. He kept his face impassive as he asked, “And how is she now?” Surely, knowing she was happy and content in her world, Caspian could release her once and for all.

Aslan sighed softly and seemed to deliberate. Such a pause was unusual for the omnipotent lion.

“Please, Aslan. I must know.”

When He spoke again, Aslan’s voice was swollen with pain. “Susan Pevensie is no longer a friend of Narnia.”


	9. AFTERMATH

“Susan, are you sure?”

“Completely.”

From where she stood behind Susan’s chair, Blanche stroked her friend’s curls. “Don’t you know how many women would kill to have your hair?” she moaned with undisguised longing.

Susan drummed her fingers on the table in a steady, unyielding rhythm. “Blanche. Please.”

Blanche gave an agonized groan. With one hand still resting protectively on Susan’s head, she snatched up a mirror and thrust it into her hands. 

“Susan,” she said determinedly. “Look at yourself. Look one more time and tell me again – with absolute certainty – that this is what you want to do.”

Susan narrowed her eyes, twisting to look over her shoulder at Blanche. “No, I’m not going – ”

Blanche pushed her head back so Susan faced forward again. “Just look.”

With a growl of annoyance, Susan glared into the mirror. Her likeness stared back, stone-faced and dull-eyed. Her cheeks were colorless, and the barest trace of a line had appeared on her forehead. Susan grit her teeth. Those flaws would be rectified soon enough with powder and paint.

Her hair tumbled against her face, over her shoulders, and down her back like molasses. Once, when she was still a queen, it had fallen nearly to her feet – the foreign princes had lauded her for it.

 _Had they seen anything else?_ she wondered bitterly. _Besides a pretty prize? A rich Narnian trophy?_ (She briefly remembered the vile Prince Rabadash of Calormen.) _If they could look at me now, would they see how I’m breaking? Could any of them guess why?_

Of course not. Only one prince had any chance at guessing that.

The tresses hung heavy, woven with memory.

 _You were wrong, Caspian_ , she thought. _I am no longer a Queen of Narnia_.

She let the disgust color her voice. “Cut it.”

Blanche shook her head exasperatedly. “Unbelievable.”

Susan was silent.

Looking pained, Blanche raised the scissors. With a smooth, metallic snip, the first lock fell. Susan tapped her foot impatiently.

When it was done, Susan whirled around to face her friend. She noticed how the air could invade the shorter strands, lifting them sharply away from her head as she spun. Instinctively, Susan knew that it was an alluring movement.

Blanche’s expression was vaguely horrified. Her golden ringlets seemed to droop with sadness. She still held the scissors aloft, as if they were a bloodied murder weapon. Susan didn’t care. More than that, she didn’t care that she didn’t care. Eyes blazing, Susan grabbed her hands and said, “Come on, Blanche. Let’s go dancing.”

-

 _Was he glad he had escaped her before she corrupted him? Or had he himself somehow been the agent of corruption?_ The thoughts tormented Caspian as the _Dawn Treader_ sailed toward Ramandu’s Island.

Lilliandil was waiting on the shoreline as if she anticipated his arrival. Her gown was diamond-white, like it was infused with the purest starlight, and a silvery-blue radiance encompassed her form. She stood with an ethereal poise, the kind that human women would fight for years to attain. Caspian felt the worried thoughts fade away and an involuntary smile warm his face when he saw her. Perhaps his task would not be so difficult after all.

Disembarking the row boat, Caspian walked directly to her. He had no excuses left, no more reasons – or even wishes – to wait. Plus, he had made a vow to his council, and by extension, to his people. He would waste no time. 

He knelt on the sand.

“My lady Lilliandil,” Caspian said clearly. “Resplendent daughter of stars and faithful servant of Aslan. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife and my queen?” 

He gazed into her eyes. Like Susan’s, they were blue, except that Lilliandil’s blue was almost inhuman; it was at once the deepest tracts of the ocean and the highest echelons of a dawn sky. For one long second, Caspian was swallowed up by those eyes. He saw nothing, only lost himself in their enchantment.

Then Lilliandil smiled softly. She placed one slender hand against his cheek, moving with impossible grace, as though each joint in each finger was knit with silk. Her skin – unblemished by any mark or wrinkle – was pleasingly cool. When she answered, her voice was like a spoken song.

“Yes.”

-

They called her the belle of Boston. 

Her mouth burned with scarlet lipstick. Her eyes were outlined with dramatic shadows and she camouflaged her skin with thick layers of powder and rouge. Her sable hair was cut at her jaw. It kept her _light_. 

She had forgotten her journalistic ambitions – or at least, she had buried them deep inside. Instead, she made herself the spirit of frivolity, inundating herself with distraction. She anticipated every trend and treated every sidewalk like a runway. She was fresh and young, but also inexplicably sophisticated. She spoke with careful mindlessness, always sugary, always invitingly coy. She was the envy of every woman, the desire of every man, and a sought-after attendee of every Boston party. 

She knew everyone but no one really knew her. Some said she had had a friend once, a girl with golden hair, but no one recalled more than that. 

She lived on the dance floor. Her smile was easy and her feet were quick. She could embody any rhythm, express any melody. She was coveted as the loveliest of partners, but she was always gone a beat before the song ended to find her next pair of arms. 

She was never alone. 

She was a butterfly who had painted her own wings, living in a cocoon of laughter and warmth. But as the nights wore on, and the dances died one by one, she never found arms that satisfied. 

So she listened to the music, the easy blend of trumpets and strings and drums. It was a pulse, firm and sure, that masked the limping beats of her heart.

At 2 AM, Susan sat alone in her room, easing off her heels and gingerly stretching her ankles – the jitterbug had been particularly intense that night. She was still numb with mirth, and a warm tickle lingered in her belly. From her desk, the radio played quietly. She barely heard it, until the airwaves crackled with a recent hit by Dinah Shore.

_“I'll walk alone because, to tell you the truth, I'll be lonely_  
_I don't mind being lonely_  
_When my heart tells me you are lonely, too_  
_Till you're walking beside me, I'll walk alone.”_

Susan slammed the radio off.

-

The royal wedding was a lavish affair and the nation rejoiced. Every night thereafter, the Narnian skies were lit with the gleam of Lilliandil’s starlight. 

Though she did not know the intricacies of his past, Lilliandil was never ignorant of Caspian’s sufferings. Diligently she cared for his weary and abused heart, and with time, it softened. As summer’s ardor faded into autumn, and autumn hardened into winter, Caspian came to sincerely love his bride.

Eventually, on a clear morning in early spring, just as buds were beginning to tremble on the spindly branches of trees long bare, a son was born to King Caspian and his queen. Again, the kingdom rejoiced with great feasting and celebration. The prince had the silvery blonde hair of his mother and the dark earthy eyes of his father. Lilliandil named him Rilian, a variant on a phrase in the language of stars meaning “roar of Aslan”.

And Caspian was content.


	10. KINGS AND QUEENS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favorite chapters to write. In many ways, it is a tribute - chiefly to Lucy and her indomitable spirit, but also to Peter, both the king that he was and the bond he shared with her. I hope this does them some justice.

Peter spent his summer holidays in Boston with Susan and their parents. Several of his friends from Harvard had roots in the same area.

One afternoon, Susan sat typing out thank-you notes to the hosts of parties she had recently attended. Peter, ever the dedicated student, was finishing a study session with a friend in the same room – despite the fact that it was the middle of July. 

There was a scuffle as Peter gathered up his papers. “Well, here’s to a productive bit of calculus. It’s been good to see you, Elliot,” he said warmly. “Let’s hope we don’t forget all this in a month.”

“Same to you, Pete,” his friend replied. Susan glanced at them. Elliot was bent over the table as he stuffed books and papers into his satchel. His dark hair fell forward, obscuring his eyes.

“I can’t wait until we’re proper doctors and never have to do math again,” Peter said with characteristic passion. “Partitions are bloody awful.”

Susan saw Elliot’s lip twitch with amusement. “I know what you mean.” 

Buckling his satchel, he straightened up. “See you, Pete. Take care.” They shook hands before Elliot turned to look at Susan. His eyes were a striking forest green. “Miss Pevensie.” He touched a hand to his cap, gave her a slight nod, and briskly departed. 

Susan was typing again before the door clicked shut. She listened as Peter settled back into a chair and began paging through a book.

The keys stilled.

Susan couldn’t remember the last time she had had a proper conversation with her older brother. They had never been especially close. But he had lived in Narnia too. He had been a king and he had known Aslan, the lion who had expelled them both at the same moment. Peter had once believed in magic, just like her. Perhaps he still did.

“What do you miss most about Narnia?” Susan asked quietly.

Peter looked up from his textbook, a confused expression in his eyes.

“What?” The surprise was evident in his voice. “Why are we talking about Narnia?”

Susan couldn’t answer that. 

His gaze was hard. “I thought you said that Narnia was just a game we played as children.” It was less a question and more an accusation.

Susan stammered incoherently. “I... I don’t… I never wanted…” It was impossible to explain what she had done, the walls she had erected, the façade she maintained. 

Finally, she resorted to a shrug, and resumed typing. 

There was an uncomfortable pause riddled with the clack of Susan’s keys like sprays of bullets.

“Authority,” Peter said suddenly. Susan looked at him and saw the intensity in his eyes. “I knew my destiny and how to control it. I knew what I wanted. I knew how to help people – how to protect them.” 

A faraway look settled across his face. 

“I knew who I was.” 

He paused and cleared his throat. His next words were firm. Assured. “But I believe in Aslan. This is not the end.”

Susan wasn’t ready for the emotions his words aroused. “You sound like Lucy,” she muttered nastily.

Peter didn’t miss a beat. “Good,” he said, the ice in his voice dangerously sharp. “Maybe I’ve learnt something.”

Susan glared at him. Peter stared right back, his eyes full of contemplation. 

After a minute, he seemed to reach some kind of internal decision, and he sighed. Agitatedly, he tapped a pencil against his book. “I can’t believe I’m even asking this,” he said quietly, “but what about you? What do you miss?” His expression beseeched an honest answer.

The hints of compassion and pity in the hesitating question utterly blindsided her. Susan’s breath snagged in her throat. She shook her head as tears blurred her vision, wiping carefully at her eyes.

“Is it smudged?” she asked though a sniffle.

Peter quirked an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“My mascara, the eye make-up – is it smudged?”

Peter’s face turned stony. He readjusted himself in his chair, crossed his legs, and looked down again to his book.

“No,” he said stiffly. “It isn’t.”

Susan felt her stomach twist and her heart harden. She turned back to the typewriter.

-

The war ended in September of 1945. Barely a month later, Edmund and Lucy made the crossing to America. When Susan, Peter, and their parents met them at the docks, neither of them recognized their sister.

“Father! Mother!” Lucy squealed, flying through the hordes of disembarking passengers. Susan saw a flash of copper hair and then Lucy was crashing into their parents’ arms. A beat later she caught sight of her oldest brother; though it was a drizzly day, her smile became bright enough to burn away the overcast skies. 

“ _Peter_!”

Susan couldn’t remember ever seeing Peter look so glad. He caught Lucy in his arms and spun her around. 

“Hey, Lu,” he grinned.

Lucy hugged him fiercely.

Edmund came trotting behind her with their luggage. The brothers greeted each other with companionable nods.

“Pete.”

Peter’s eyes twinkled. “Ed.”

“Oh, Edmund, look how you’ve grown!” cried their mother as she ran forward. Edmund was then obliged to relinquish his hold on the bags so she could hug him and pinch his cheeks.

“Hi, Mum,” he muttered, smiling in spite of himself. 

His father clasped Edmund’s hand in a firm shake. “Good to see you, son.”

“Mother,” said Lucy, scanning the crowd from her perch on Peter’s arm, “where’s Susan?” Her eyes skimmed right past her sister, who stood slightly apart from the group. Their mother nodded in Susan’s direction.

Edmund turned, also looking. His gaze rested on Susan for a long moment and he squinted, though they were only a few yards apart. Then his eyes popped wide.

“ _Susan_? What the bloody h – ”

“Edmund!” barked their father, his face reddening.

Edmund coughed. “Right, sorry…” He scanned Susan up and down, taking in her fashionable dress, high heels, and layers of make-up. “...you’ve, uh, changed a bit.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Yes, I have,” she said coolly.

Edmund’s eyes were growing darker by the second and Susan felt her stomach twist. The last time she had seen Edmund with such an expression was in the caves deep under Aslan’s How, when his intervention had narrowly prevented Caspian and Peter from reincarnating the White Witch. Susan remembered vividly the moment the ice had crumbled away to reveal Edmund, sword held aloft like a scorpion’s stinger, in the flaming silhouette of the stone arch. His entire body had radiated muted fury.

It was no different now.

“What happened to you?” He asked it almost accusingly.

Peter gently set Lucy down and put a hand on Edmund’s shoulder. “Just leave it, Ed.” 

Susan leveled her gaze at him. “Much the same as has happened to you, I imagine. I’ve gotten a bit older and learnt quite a lot.”

Edmund brushed the hand away. “And what’s that? How to paint your face?”

A muscle began to work in Peter’s jaw.

“Edmund, hush,” said their mother. “There’s no harm in a lady using a little make-up to enhance her features.”

“A little?” Edmund scoffed. “I can’t even see her features!”

Peter closed his eyes.

“Quiet!” their father practically growled. “Susan’s beauty habits are no concern of yours _whatsoever_ , Edmund Pevensie. Moreover – ” he paused to draw breath as his voice rose threateningly “ – no young man of your age should have to be reminded not to make a _spectacle_ of himself in _public_!”

Edmund glowered and ducked his head with a muttered apology. His father pointed a finger at the pile of luggage collecting drizzle. “Get the bags.”

With a hard, lingering look in Susan’s direction, Edmund stalked away. Peter followed him as their parents moved off to speak to a ship official.

Lucy approached her sister. “Your hair…” she whispered. “Your lovely, lovely hair… Susan, how could you ever – ?”

“Easily,” Susan said stiffly. “It’s much less cumbersome now.”

Lucy blinked. “I see…” She was quiet for only a second before another smile began to light her face, slowly stretching up from her lips to her eyes. She took Susan’s hand eagerly and gave it a little tug. 

“Oh Susan, I can’t wait to tell you all about our _adventure_! I tried so many times to write you more letters about it – besides that first one I posted, I mean – but I just couldn’t seem to get the details right on paper. I’ve been waiting and waiting – ”

Ever since she had learned that her siblings would be joining the family in Boston, Susan had dreaded this moment. Of course she knew exactly where Lucy meant to take this conversation.

But Susan would not do it. She would not go back. 

She cut Lucy off abruptly. 

“What adventure?”

Lucy stared, dumbstruck, as her smile turned to amused disbelief. “ _You know_ ,” she said in a low voice. Lucy looked up at her intently, as if she were digging for something in Susan’s eyes. “You _must_ know.” 

Susan adjusted her hat to ensure that it still guarded her face from the fine rain, avoiding eye contact. “No, I don’t.”

Lucy gave an exasperated little sigh. She threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure they were out of earshot of their parents before whispering urgently, “ _Narnia_ , of course. The voyage of the _Dawn Treader_! What other adventure could I _possibly_ be talking about?”

And there it was. Susan felt goosebumps prickle across her skin.

“Narnia?” She forced a laugh – a disgusting, sugary falsetto. “Do you mean that fantasy we used to play when we were children?” 

Susan extracted her hand from Lucy’s now limp fingers. 

“None of it’s real, you know.”

Lucy looked as if she’d just slapped her. There was a crash as Edmund dropped a suitcase. Peter stared.

“You don’t… you mean, you don’t believe in Narnia anymore?”

Susan found herself reusing the words she had spoken to Peter, infusing them with a newer, harder ire. “It was just a game, Lucy. A stupid, silly game. That’s all.”

And it had been. Narnia was always a cruel game she had never had any hope of winning. It was a chess match where every other move she found herself checkmated. For how could she believe in something that had taken everything away from her? She had invested her life in being a queen – indeed, she had helped usher the land into a Golden Age – but Narnia rejected her service. Her home had been Cair Paravel, yet the white castle now lay in ruins. And her one great love – a Telmarine prince with the passion of galaxies twirling in his blood – had married another. 

All Narnia had ever done was chew her up and spit her out, every time more mangled than before. _And in some ways_ , Susan thought, _it was my own fault for believing that the scientifically impossible could ever be real._

Lucy’s eyes were filling with tears. “But what about Aslan?” Her chin trembled. “What about _Caspian_?”

Susan’s stomach came up to sit in the back of her throat. She shrugged dismissively. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t really recall who they were.”

Lucy stepped back slowly, her chin shaking harder now. Her arms were crossed over her body so that each hand cradled an elbow, like she was keeping herself from flying apart. Tears were free-falling down her cheeks but her unblinking gaze never left Susan’s face. 

“Why won’t you remember?” she cried, now heedless of their parents’ proximity. “ _You kissed him_!”

It was the worst thing she could have possibly said. All the memories Susan fought every day to suppress exploded into her mind. Fevered aggression – a reflexive defense against pain – rose in her stomach.

“Oh, come off it, Lucy,” she said mockingly. “You don’t really think there are wonderlands in wardrobes, do you?” She scoffed a little. “I suppose you never really did learn when to stop pretending.”

At that, Peter threw down the bag he was holding and strode towards them, his eyes dark and furious. 

“Come on, Lucy. Let’s go.” He tried to put an arm around her shoulders – not evening deigning to look at Susan – but she shrugged him off.

Lucy’s stricken face was a swamp of red blotches and tears. For a brief moment, Susan could see just how deep her arrow had gone. It was as if she had just torn the sun from the sky, smashed it to bits, and thrown the shards at Lucy’s feet. 

_Well_ , Susan thought cruelly, _maybe now she’ll know how it feels._

But almost as soon as the thought came, Lucy changed. She straightened her shoulders almost imperceptibly, eliminating the slight curve in her upper back, and pressed her lips into a thin line. She let her arms fall to her sides and shifted her weight so that both legs held it evenly. Her expression became infinitely fiercer than anything Edmund had ever worn. 

Though her eyes still shone with tears, she looked Susan straight in the face.

“If everything you’ve just told me is how you really think, and what you really feel,” she said, “then I _pity_ you.”

And with that, the Valiant Queen turned on her heel and strode away, leaving her sister – who had once been called Gentle – to stand alone in the churn of people and rainwater.


	11. DEATH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, #10 was one of the longest chapters and #11 is one of the shortest. Awkward. It was one of those less-than-ideal divides made to preserve narrative pacing. Originally, #11 and #13 (still upcoming) were a single entity, but I had to find a place to split them because... it just didn't work for me otherwise. Blame it on character development trajectories.

Hooves clattered against stone, as if the courtyard was filled with an angry tide churning pebbles against rock. A voice dragged after it, frantic with urgency.

_“My liege! Sire! King Caspian!”_

The messenger heaved on the reins. His horse skidded to a stop, sparks flaring around its hooves. He had leapt to the ground before the fire settled. The horse – with fur lathered like the inside of a washing tub – shuddered with every breath, its sides heaving like bellows.

“Summon King Caspian!” the messenger shouted at the guards, his eyes wild. They hesitated, taking in his abused horse and crazed expression. 

“ _Do it now!_ ” he thundered.

The guards scrambled into action. Moments later, Caspian appeared on a balcony that overlooked the courtyard. He scowled. “What is Aslan’s name is going on out here?”

The messenger knelt, deeply sorrowful. “It is terrible news that I must bring you, Your Majesty. Queen Lilliandil is dead, bitten by a serpent while she picnicked with her ladies in the field.”

All activity in the courtyard froze. The ensuing silence rang like the smothering crash of an ocean breaker. 

The king’s face had gone white. Almost imperceptibly, one of his hands crept out to grip the metal railing of the balcony. The skin of his knuckles was stretched taut over bone.

After a horrible void of time had passed, the King of Narnia addressed a guard, each word carefully measured. “Locate my son. Escort him to his chambers. Tell him nothing. I will come to him.” 

The guard saluted and raced away.

Caspian took a great, steadying breath as his insides crumbled. It was only through sheer force of will that he kept himself from flying apart. _But he must finish issuing his orders. He must maintain control._

“You – ” he barked at another guard. He swayed involuntarily on his feet. There was nothing inside, only muscle and sinew hung on a weakening spine. He fought to keep his mind from fully grasping the tragedy. When it did, he would have no more chance at control.

_This must be done._

With effort, he finished his command, “ – clear the Great Hall. Assemble the Privy Council. Assemble the generals. And summon –” His voice broke. 

Caspian swallowed and tried again. “Summon the undertaker.”

He had barely finished speaking before the guard was hurrying off.

A loose, laughing part of him wondered how he could possibly be asking for an undertaker. _Surely there was no need for one…? What could have possibly happened to warrant his services…?_

Caspian shivered. Both hands now gripped the railing. “Where is she?” Caspian asked hoarsely, looking at the messenger.

Still kneeling before his king in the middle of the motionless courtyard, the messenger replied, “Her Majesty’s body is being brought back now, Sire. I rode ahead of the party.”

His control slipped dangerously. Caspian’s face morphed into a stew of naked anguish. His head rolled to the side, eyes squeezed shut, brow deeply furrowed, lips pressed together. “No,” he whispered. “Not her, too…” Only the guards around him could hear.

But he was a king. And kings must always remain composed. So Caspian mustered a curt nod, gave a cursory dismissal of the messenger and his attendants, and made for his chambers.

As soon as the door slammed shut, Caspian crumpled to the floor. He felt his chest cavity caving in. His heart convulsed violently, ripping itself apart, and all at once, he was reduced to a shaking, sobbing mess. 

He had never wept like this before. The velvet fabric of his royal blue cape puddled around him, catching his tears as he moaned and yelled and died over and over again.

And he loathed it. Every moment that he lived it – every moment that he felt the sobs rattling his rib cage – he loathed the pathetic helplessness of his grief.

_First Susan… now Lilliandil…_ It was the same heartbreak _all. over. again._

There was a surge of fresh tears, hot and burning. Caspian knotted a fist into his cape.

_Aslan, how could you?_

Slowly, the tears dried up, leaving a sticky salt crust under his eyes. Caspian didn’t know how long he stayed sequestered in his chambers, huddled on the floor. Perhaps a handful of minutes. Perhaps a handful of hours. But eventually, one duty, persistently nudging at him somewhere near where his heart used to be, compelled him into action.

Rilian.

His son needed him.

So Caspian rose up. He straightened his tunic, brushed off his cloak, wiped futilely at his red eyes, and began the walk to his son’s chambers.


	12. DANCE

The following night, Susan went to a party. It was timely escape; the schism between Susan and her siblings had never felt more absolute. Twice she had caught Peter glaring at her. Edmund refused to make eye contact. She only saw Lucy at meals. 

Susan didn’t know the name of her escort – Clark, maybe? Like a curse, she could never remember their names, but then, it never mattered very much. As soon as they arrived, she would leave him and find the dance floor. She would rotate the beaux, swapping her stage props, just as she always did.

The venue was a stately white house – more of a mansion, really – comfortably situated on the outskirts of Boston city. Susan delicately adjusted the straps of her favorite gown as she stepped through the door. The fabric made a sleek, crimson sheath around her body that never failed to attract admirers. They came to her like flies to a flame, their eager courtesies overlapping as they clamored for her.

“Please, Miss Pevensie, will you dance - ?” 

“Miss Pevensie, you look simply stunning this evening!” 

“Oh, Miss Pevensie, I’d be just delighted if - !”

Susan smiled and extended her hand arbitrarily to one of the throng. Before any of them could take it, however, a different voice, quiet but steady, cut through the buzz.

“Miss Pevensie? Would you do me the honor of a dance this evening?”

A new hand, palm upturned, was presented to her just as the band began to play. Stifling a grunt of annoyance, Susan grabbed it with more force than she intended. 

“Certainly,” she said in a blasé tone, ignoring the grumbles from the other young men. Not even bothering to make eye contact, she tucked her arm into his and propelled them into the dance. Soon, movement began to smear her vision as they were submerged in whirls of golden light.

Usually when she danced, Susan was all but oblivious to her partner; the arms that held her were only a tool. She paid for their usage with her red lips and honeyed tongue while the music numbed her mind. But tonight, green slipped into the comfortable blur of gold. Tiny flecks of emerald pierced the haze.

It was his eyes. 

Her nameless partner was watching her. Susan shifted her focus to his face. He had a strong jaw, set with all the gravity of quiet intelligence. His dark hair was ruffled, like a bird’s wing after a storm, and swept gently across his forehead. And then there were his crystal-green eyes, as serene as an alpine woodland.

Suddenly, Susan could feel every roughened contour of his hand in hers and every nuance of pressure where he cradled the small of her back. 

“Have we met?” she asked.

“Only briefly,” he said. “My name is Elliot Turner.”

Her memory flared. “Ah, yes. You’re a friend of Peter’s.”

He inclined his head slightly. “That’s right.” He led her through a spin. “Are you enjoying the dance?”

 _Was there ever a dance she didn’t enjoy?_ Susan nodded. “Very much. It is quite diverting.”

His lips hinted at a smile. “I’m glad to hear it. My mother is the host, you see. That leaves me to undertake… shall we say, quality control?”

She looked up at him through her lashes. “So you’re here dancing with me to assess my quality?”

He flinched almost imperceptibly. There was a tentatively teasing undertone to his voice when he answered. “Aren’t you called the belle of Boston, Miss Pevensie? Who could be of higher quality?”

Something about his earnest words found their way into cracks she didn’t know she had. Susan opened her mouth to speak but no reply came. A blush crept into her cheeks, followed by an unexpected stirring of shame.

“A great many people,” she murmured under her breath. Saying it felt like the prick of a needle. She wasn’t sure if he heard.

Elliot paused. “Forgive me,” he said. He spun her again. After a moment, he added bashfully, “You look lovely this evening.”

“Thank you.”

She met his eyes again, blue melting into green, sky mingling with treetops, ocean meeting shore. The shame she had felt moments before settled in the bottom of her stomach, dissipating gently like the slow release of a cramped muscle. 

She saw him swallow. A worried breeze stirred the forests in his eyes. 

“I hope I’m not being terribly forward but...” Elliot broke off, like he had tripped over the sentence, and Susan felt his hand grow slightly damp. A second later, he chuckled self-deprecatingly. “You know, I’m afraid I really did have an ulterior motive when I asked you dance.”

Susan waited.

Elliot readjusted his hold on her waist. “Well, Miss Pevensie, what I’m trying to ask… without seeming outrageously bold, I mean… is just…” His jaw tightened before he finished in a rush, “May I call on you sometime?”

Susan nearly fell over her own feet. She stumbled clumsily before Elliot – leveraging a vise-like grip on her waist – was able to redirect the motion into an awkward dip. 

Now her mind found wild dance steps all its own. She should reject him; she always rejected them. A butterfly does not settle on a single flower when she can solicit a multitude. Besides, she had drunk deeply from the well of romance once before and it had left her parched. 

But there was something about Elliot Turner that was different, something the other men didn’t possess. Something perceptive. Something decent. 

Something safe.

The voice in her head was rueful. _You can’t feel all of this now. You’ve only been acquainted for a few minutes. Logically, it’s impossible._

Vague images of Caspian, like the dregs of a ghost, swam behind her eyes… they had been in the woods, his lip cut and bleeding from the scuffle with Peter. They had exchanged a brief glance that felt like fire. And though he was responding to Peter, he had looked at her when he said, “You’re not exactly what I expected.”

She resisted the memories, resisted the pain, but the subconscious thought was obvious. 

_No. Certainly not impossible._

Susan took a breath and let herself smile. “Yes. You may.”


	13. RILIAN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally unplanned and then it just happened; turns out that it's an important moment for Caspian to have with Rilian. Fair warning though - I got very sad while writing it because it involves a child learning that his mother has died.

The castle corridors were eerily quiet. Bitterly, Caspian noted the efficiency of his staff; already, much was shrouded in black.

Guilt needled at him - he should have gone instantly to Rilian’s side, to explain and comfort - but reason quickly countered. Caspian’s own emotions needed to be checked first. At not even seven years old, seeing his father in such a state would only have distressed the child more. 

Coming to Rilian’s chamber, Caspian pushed the door open and stepped in. The prince and a guard – the same guard who had been charged with finding him – sat cross-legged on the stone floor playing a game with marbles. 

“Ah ha!” cried Rilian with a deft flick of his thumb. A purple marble went skittering across the tiles and collided with a green one, knocking it far to the side. “I beat you!”

“So you have, my prince,” chuckled the guard. 

Rilian stuck out his little hand proudly. “Good game, Sergeant.”

The sergeant shook it, smiling through his scruffy beard. “It was indeed, Your Highness.” 

“Rilian.” With a wince, Caspian noticed how grave and brittle his voice sounded – much more so than he had intended. 

“Father!” Rilian leapt up and zoomed across the space to give Caspian a hug. “Did you see me? I won!”

Caspian patted the boy’s blonde head. “Yes, I saw. Congratulations, son.”

Rilian craned his head back to look at Caspian’s face. “Father, what’s wrong?”

Not for the first time, Caspian was caught off-guard by the quick insight of his child. With one hand holding Rilian in a half-hug, Caspian gestured to the door. “Sergeant, you’re dismissed,” he said to the guard.

“Yes, sir.” The man’s eyes were sad as he left the room.

“Father?” came Rilian’s reedy little voice. “Am I in trouble?”

Caspian hefted him up into his arms. “No, you’re not in trouble.”

“Is Sergeant in trouble?”

“No, of course not,” said Caspian, walking to the bed. “Sergeant is a very good man, just like you are a very good little boy.” He set Rilian down on its edge and sat next to him. His son watched him keenly. The expression on his face was one of utmost concern.

“Who’s in trouble then?”

Tears threatened behind Caspian’s eyes. “No one is in trouble.”

Rilian jumped up, happy again. “Then I’d like to play another game!” He started off to collect the green and purple marbles that had rolled in every direction. “Would you like to play with me?” 

Mentally, Caspian kicked himself. _I don’t know how to do this._

“Would you like to play with me? Please?” Rilian repeated, working to emphasize his politeness.

Caspian found himself briefly without words. He just stared, marveling at the boy’s innocence and terrified that he was about to sully it. It was like trying to handle a dandelion without knocking any of the seeds ajar. 

_Oh Aslan, help._

Still sitting on the edge of the bed, Caspian buried his head in his hands. 

The marbles that Rilian had gathered went cascading to the floor. A second later, he had scuttled back over to his father and was tapping insistently on the top of Caspian’s skull.

Caspian raised his head. This allowed room for Rilian to rest his chin on Caspian’s knees. He gazed up at his father. “Something’s wrong,” he stated. It was no longer a question.

Again, Caspian felt the burning pressure of tears. He lifted Rilian into his lap.

“Rilian,” he said, “what do you know about Aslan?”

“Aslan?” said Rilian, his face breaking out into a grin. “He’s a lion. I can roar like Him!” The prince proceeded to demonstrate his skills.

Caspian smiled even as he felt the threat of tears intensify. “That is very fearsome. You would make a terrifying lion.”

Rilian was still smiling, though his tone grew more serious. “And He is good. Aslan is very good.”

“Yes,” Caspian managed. “Aslan is very good.” He paused. “Rilian, what do you think it would be like to live with Aslan? To live with Him forever?”

Rilian’s face twisted in careful consideration. Eventually, he said, “I think that would be good, too. If Aslan is good, then living with Him would also be good.”

“That’s right,” said Caspian. “One day, you will go live with Aslan. So will I.”

“When?”

“When we’re done living in this world.”

Rilian paused. “What about Mother? Will she get to live with Him?”

He had finally come to it. Caspian took a fortifying breath, willing the tears away. “Rilian,” he said slowly, “Mother is already with Aslan.”

Confusion swept across Rilian’s face. “But I saw her. I saw her this morning.”

Caspian nodded. “She went to live with Aslan a few hours ago.”

“Can I go too? I want to go with her.”

Caspian shook his head.

“When is she coming back?”

“She isn’t coming back.”

“Why?”

“She can’t.”

Rilian was quiet, his eyes wide. “But I want Mother. I want to see her again.”

“You will one day. We both will.”

“But I want to see her now.”

Caspian’s voice was thick with emotion. “I do too. But we can’t. Not right now.”

Rilian stared. In the course of a few moments, his wide eyes grew wet as he grasped this. Finally, he began to weep.

“I want her now!” he wailed, struggling in Caspian’s arms. “I want to see Mother now!”

Caspian rocked him as he cried, feeling his little body tremble and shake under his hands. “It’s alright,” he murmured. “I’ve got you… you’re alright…” Caspian’s heart broke afresh with his child’s pain. 

Caspian cradled him that way, with no comfort to offer besides the security of his arms, for many minutes. At length, when all his tears had been expended, Rilian raised his head from his father’s shoulder. His face was puffy and swollen, but he looked piercingly into Caspian’s eyes.

“Is Mother happy with Aslan?”

Caspian finally felt the tears overflow. He clasped Rilian into a hug, holding him as tightly as he possibly could. “Yes,” Caspian whispered, “she is happy. But she misses you very much.”

He felt Rilian give a small sigh as he leaned into him. “I hope Aslan likes her.”

Thick as his tears were, a smile curved against Caspian’s cheeks. Gently, he stroked Rilian’s silvery blonde hair. 

“Aslan loves her.”


	14. WRECK

On the day that it happened – when they all went to the train station – Susan stayed home. She didn’t want any more interactions. She didn’t want to see Peter’s cold eyes or Lucy’s tears or Edmund’s shuttered face. She didn’t think she needed to see them anymore.

Alone in the house, she busied herself with all manner of tasks. With tiny, neat stiches she repaired the hem on her favorite red dress. She polished her dancing shoes until they gleamed like marble. By late afternoon, she was just sitting down to sort through another round of invitations when there was a knock at the door.

Elliot Turner stood on her doorstep.

“Mr. Turner!” Susan said, instinctively reaching to touch her hair into place. She hadn’t seen him since the dance a few days earlier. “I wasn’t expecting you.” A breezy chuckle. “I wasn’t expecting you at all, actually.”

He glanced at her briefly, looking startled, then away again.

“Call me Elliot, please,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “I apologize for the intrusion, Miss Pevensie. I only wanted – ”

He stopped.

That was when Susan noticed that he was dressed entirely in black.

“And you may call me Susan,” she said hurriedly as her stomach rolled over. She cleared her throat. “Had we made plans for today?”

“No, we hadn’t. And this is not how I envisioned next meeting you.” She saw he was carrying a bouquet of chrysanthemums, which he now shifted into full view. “I’m so terribly sorry.” 

“What do you mean?” 

She saw him knit his brow in confusion. He began to thumb a few of the petals nervously. And still, he did not meet her eyes.

“Elliot?”

Finally, he looked at her. His green eyes were dark and filled with grief, like evergreens shrouded in snow. Like Narnia’s unnatural, hundred-year winter. She stepped back a half-pace, one hand gripping the door frame.

“Elliot, what on earth is the matter?”

“You haven’t heard,” he said softly, realization coloring his voice. “I...” He shook his head. “I didn’t think I would be the one to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

He swallowed. Susan was shocked, almost frightened, to see the trace of a tear on his cheek.

“Miss Pev – Susan. I’m not entirely sure how to say this but…” He had pulled a leaf off of one of the flowers and was grinding it between two fingers. “There was a… an accident. Earlier today. At the train station.”

Her stomach did an abrupt somersault.

“It was an awful wreck. Two cars hit each other. One of them went flying up onto the platform.”

“My family was at the train station today,” Susan heard herself say. “All of them. My parents. Peter. Edmund. Lucy.”

There was a pause.

“Yes.”

She felt the blood begin to pound through her head, pool in her ears. “Where are they?”

There was another pause before he answered.

“They died.”

A tremor went through her body. Black appeared at the fringes of her vision. 

Elliot swallowed. “I’m so sorry. I only wanted to give you these.” He extended the bouquet of chrysanthemums. “And offer my deepest condolences.”

She took them without thinking. It felt like someone was sucking her innards out. Like her head had no axis. Like her eyes were filled with oil. 

Elliot began to look vaguely panicked. He stepped towards her. “Please, if there’s anything I can do, any way at all that I can help, please tell – ”

“Thank you, Elliot,” she managed. “But I would rather be alone just now.”

She moved to close the door. 

“Thank you,” she repeated, then let it swing shut. The latch clicked with a muted thud, like sealing a tomb.

Susan felt her grip fail as her hands began to shake violently. The chrysanthemums cascaded to the floor. The blossoms landed on the tile with dull splats, but Susan didn’t hear them.

She sank down against the door. Everything was warped. The familiar turned foreign. She couldn’t recall the purpose of the table that held her assorted invitations. Nor could she remember why, exactly, there had to be a chandelier hanging in the foyer… 

_Why did it have to be so bright?_ The lit bulbs flared in her vision, pinching at her eyes… 

_Why bother with light at all? Why bother fighting such darkness?_ She felt it clawing at the insides of her skull, saw it bleeding into her vision…

Peter.

Edmund.

Lucy.

(She couldn’t even begin to think of her parents.)

Their names pounded in her brain. She tipped her head back, closed her eyes…

 _They had just gone for the afternoon..._

_They had only just gone…_

Surely, they would be coming home, ambling down the street any moment now. She knew it. She could see it. Peter would be giving Lucy a piggyback ride – even though they all knew she was far too old for that kind of thing now – and they would be laughing as she tried to set his cap askew and muss his blonde hair. The top button of his collar would be undone and his sleeves rolled up halfway, and his scarf would be nearly falling off, because Peter’s edges were messy with life and movement. When he finished at Harvard and he became a doctor, he would warm those famously bleak hospital corridors. He would make his patients smile. Even if he could not heal their bodies, he would heal their spirits.

Edmund would probably have a book under his arm – something about history or philosophy or both – and his new reading glasses tucked carefully inside his breast pocket, and everything about him would be neat, as always, from his straight sleeve cuffs to the bowties of his shoelaces, because Edmund approached the world deliberately and assuredly. He would be a lawyer someday, Susan was sure. He would do battle in a bloodthirsty arena without having to so much as rumple his shirt and he would command his words to change the world. Susan almost chuckled when she thought of his cutting sarcasm unleashed in a courtroom. No injustice, crime, or corruption would be able to withstand that. 

He would be reaching out to tickle Lucy, maybe poking at her ribs, and Lucy would squeal as she tried to avoid him. She would clutch at Peter’s shoulders as she dodged and her hair would be tangling with her smile and her laughter would be mixing into her eyes. Her motion would cause Peter to sway, force him to fight for balance, and he would pretend to be irritated but really, his eyes would be gleaming with mirth. With love. 

Who knew what Lucy would be? 

Maybe a scientist. She would study the stars and search for Aslan in the heavens, and then she would teach about the planets and the galaxies and all the marvels that He had made. Or maybe an artist. Then she would always be creating, adding new colors to the way people saw the world so that they could see it more like she did, with hope and joy and faith. Whatever she became, it would be fierce and furious and powerfully kind. Something bright and something beautiful.

The three of them would be coming towards Susan, a bundle of laughter and warmth. They might not appreciate the sight of her at first, but it wouldn’t matter and Susan wouldn’t care. As soon as she saw them, she would run to them, embrace them, tell them all how much she needed them, how deeply she loved them. She would be crying and the mascara would be running down her cheeks and she still wouldn’t care, she wouldn’t care at all anymore. She would tell them everything that hurt so desperately inside, tell them what she had done, tell them why she was broken. She would show them her mangled spirit, her shattered faith, her bruised heart, and then she would trust them as she always should have done. She would trust them with her weakness, her fears, her doubts, and her pain. She would ask them to tell her once more about Narnia and to help her make the memories strong again, to help her find the strength to love it again…

_They would be coming home any minute now…_

Susan pulled herself up, flung open the door, stumbled outside.

It was nearly dark. The streetlamps were turning on.

_They would be coming… They were coming…_

She leaped down the steps, discarding her heeled shoes in the process. Too unwieldly for running, and she must run to meet them, she must, she _must_ …

Damp began to seep into her stockings, sharply cold against the soles of her feet.

_They had to be coming…_

But the street was empty. The vision melted away. The ghostly echoes of their imagined voices faded from between the buildings.

“No,” she whispered. Or maybe the sound was just a passing wraith.

_They weren’t coming._

She pitched forward, clutching at a lamppost. Though she could barely feel the cold, she began to shiver, wicked tremors racking her body. Her throat was nearly clenched shut. 

“Come home,” she croaked. “ _Please_.”

It was like her face was stuffed with wool. The tears began to bleed out in a thick fury.

Why, as she lost everything, did it all suddenly become so clear? Everything she should have said. _Needed_ to say. Now, she would never have another chance to tell Peter that he _would_ find who he was, that he _could_ control his destiny, and that within his tremendous heart, he had strength like a living sun. She would never again match wits with Edmund, debating policy and practicality and philosophy as they had in the Golden Age. She would never be able to tell him what skill he had or how much she believed in him. And Lucy, sweet Lucy. The bravely defiant sister that she had always envied…

Susan gripped the lamppost and sank down, her form seeming to dissolve into itself as she wept. There was a sharp, steady pressure on her breastbone that made her chest ache. She could never tell Lucy how sorry she was, could never try to repair the tears she had caused. Her last words to her sister – her sister who dared to face the world with vulnerability and empathy, and who chose to treat it with kindness – had been spoken in cruelty. In hateful spite and despairing pain. 

And she could never take them back.

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” she whispered to the metal. “ _I’m so sorry._ ”

Her sobs carried down the darkening street like the cries of a lost kitten.


	15. GOLD

Susan didn’t know how long she stayed hunched at the lamppost with her tears. The stupor of grief was all-consuming, whittling away her world so that it barely even filled her own body.

Until something nudged her, soft and solid. 

Susan drew away, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Leave me alone,” she rasped. 

Her mouth was like sandpaper and a gong pounded in her head. She thought that maybe, _eventually_ , she might drag herself back inside – for some reason that she couldn’t remember, it seemed like that might be a good idea – but she balked at the idea of encountering anything living in the foreseeable future.

She was still living. 

That was already enough to handle.

There was another nudge. 

Persistent little creature, whatever it was. 

With a bit more force in her voice, she reemphasized her point. “ _Go away_.”

She felt the pricks of tiny teeth on her arm.

“Ah!” She gave a blind a shove in its general direction. 

It nipped at her again – not hard, not enough to cause her any acute pain. But the message was clear: _pay attention_.

And Susan didn’t have the energy to keep fighting. Blearily, she looked up.

An orange cat stared back at her with piercing gold eyes. Its gleaming fur was clean and silky, not matted like that of a cat who had known the streets its whole life. The little beast purred as it arched its back against her arm, rubbing a cheek full of thick, sturdy whiskers along the side of her hand. 

In spite of herself, a tiny smile emerged on Susan’s blotched face. Gently, she ran two fingers down its spine. The rich, crackling purrs intensified like a fire given more wood to chew on.

Susan shifted so that she could sit cross-legged, her back against the lamppost. Now that she was no longer hunched over, the cat seemed to assume it had open invitation to use her as a climbing gym. Stepping delicately onto her legs, it stretched upward, placing its front paws on her shoulder so that it could nudge at her jaw.

And suddenly, Susan was hugging it – _clutching_ at this precious, warm thing that had found her in the darkness. The cat didn’t seem mind. It butted its head against her cheek. The steady hum of its purr continued as Susan held it against her chest, using the rhythm to slowly calm her breathing…

In and out… 

Pull and release… 

Cool and warm… 

_Pulse_.

She tipped her head back. Everything, from her knees to her elbow joints to the clusters of veins around her eyes, _ached_...

Eventually, the cat squirmed a little. Susan forced herself to release it, realizing as she did so how tight her grip had become. The cat promptly settled itself in her lap like a pile of gold dust, taking great care to arrange its limbs and tail.

The night deepened as Susan sat, stroking it. Her thoughts slowly emptied as her mind withdrew further and further from any remnants of emotion. She leaned against the lamppost and focused on immediate, physical, quantifiable entities… 

The stark, cold metal.

The distant moon.

The humming cat. 

Without provocation, it abruptly stood up, stretched its spine luxuriously, and stepped down from Susan’s legs. It blinked up at her for a few moments, its gold eyes vaguely luminous in the darkness. Then, it turned and walked deliberately off down the street. After a few meters, it stopped, turned back towards her, and let out a keen meow.

Susan scraped at her cheeks, sticky with the salt of dried tears, and peered at it.

Did it want her to… _follow_?

The cat meowed again, trotted back over to her, and butted its head against her arm.

“Oh no,” she said, barely louder than a whisper. “No, no, no.”

Its answer approached a yowl. 

“No. Go away.”

It carefully took the fabric of her sleeve in its tiny teeth and gave a tug.

“Hey!” The elevated pitch caused her voice to break and she drew a ragged breath.

The cat’s golden stare was far too intense for an average animal. They studied each other for a few minutes as Susan tried to ignore the dull throb at the back of her head and the agony in her heart.

“All right,” she said finally. With great effort, Susan picked herself up. She had never realized how heavy bones could be.

The orange cat slinked around her ankles a few times before starting off down the street again. Susan trailed after it.

They didn’t go all that far, just a handful of blocks. Susan watched the cat. Watched the ground. Watched her feet and let the weight of each step numb her mind. Anything other than watching the world she passed and seeing it spin on in ignorance of what it had just lost.

The cat stopped in front of white steps – or at least, that was as much as Susan could see with her bowed head. She shivered as a brisk night wind passed by.

With a loud purr, the cat rubbed her ankles a few more times, dancing restlessly on its paws. Susan knelt to pet it, and then she made herself look up.

It was a church, small but distinctly proud, with arches framing its doorway and statues of angels and saints adorning its façade. It glowed gently from within, lit by candlelight.

And before she had even fully made a conscious choice, Susan found herself crawling inside. The sanctuary was mercifully empty. Susan dragged herself into a pew, the second from the front. After a moment, she folded her hands.

It had been so unbearably long since she had prayed. She wondered if there was anything left inside her to think. Or feel. Or say.

The candlelit altar glistened patiently. A wooden cross hung behind it.

Susan swallowed. Her throat was dry. How many hours had it been since she had last had food? Water?

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and raised her eyes – much abused by tears and still ringed with the remnants of mascara – to the cross.

“They’re gone,” she whispered as her gaze found rest on its rugged form. “And I…” A feverish feeling rose inside her. “I’m so alone.”

But she had been alone long before this night. Her nails bit into her palms.

“Why wasn’t it me?” she breathed. Something cracked at the base of her soul. “Why didn’t You take me? I’m the one who _doubted_ You.” Fresh tears burned on her cheeks. “I’m the one who _hated_ You.”

She could almost hear the murmur of the flickering candle flames in the silence of the church. 

“Why?” Susan asked again. She thought of her dead family, and Caspian, and Narnia. Fervor grew in her voice. “ _Why did You leave me_?”

Her words banged against the stone innards of the church. Shadows and candlelight stirred the air.

She let out a hard breath. No answer. Naturally. A bark of something like laughter escaped her, though it was really too bitter to be called that. 

That was when she noticed a book resting beside her on the wooden pew. 

The shifting light flashed across its cover, revealing letters emblazoned in gold. She reached out to trace a finger across them.

_HOLY BIBLE_

By some strange compulsion, she took the Bible in her hands. The leather cover had been worn soft. The barest hint of gold lingered on the foxed edge of each page. It was almost possible to sense the touch of the countless other souls who had cradled this book before her.

Susan pressed her lips together. Placing it on her knees, and without really knowing what she might encounter inside, she let the Bible fall open.

She was in the first chapter of Joshua. A verse stood out on the page.

_“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go.”_

The voices of Lucy and Aslan mixed in her memory. _You must learn to know Me by another Name._

Susan took a shaky breath. Hungrily, she reread the verse, and then again. The words poured into the fissures in her spirit like balm on a stale burn. They brimmed with the satisfaction of an answer.

What more could she read?

Her thoughts lingered on Lucy. An old remnant of a memory, half-forgotten, emerged of a book called John.

Lucy had once asked to borrow a ribbon from Susan to mark a page. She had told her then, in her simple, joyful way, how she loved the Book of John. At the time, Susan was indifferent.

But now, she yearned.

_(Maybe she had always yearned.)_

In the church, with her mussed clothes and sullied face and roiling heart, Susan turned the pages of the Bible she held, hunting. 

She found it.

_“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind.”_

Susan inhaled sharply as she read the fifth verse.

_“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”_

Her tears were starting to fall onto the pages. She kept reading.

She came to the third chapter.

_“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.”_

And here, she stopped. Slowly, Susan closed the book. Her hands trembled as she laid it back on the pew. The words emblazoned on the cover seemed to hold her gaze. 

Memories flew in her mind, beginning with a long walk in blue evening woods, moving through dusty air infused with pine. She had never known such a hush as the one that lingered among those trees. Lucy was there, and they walked alongside Him, matching His slow, deliberate stride. She remembered what it was like to rest her hands in His mane; sensing a need, an ache, but not knowing how to ease it. And after countless steps, His words: “I must go on alone.” 

Then, hiding in the scrub with Lucy, beyond the frenzy of fire, watching as He moved among the demons. Watching as they shouted jeers. Spat on Him. Bound Him. Cut His beautiful mane. Humiliated Him in every possible way. 

She remembered drums. How horror gripped her bones when she saw the Witch’s knife. She remembered a flash in the firelight, and then a thud, a stillness, the gold eyes sighing closed, and finally, the manic shouts of triumph from the assembled mob, and…

Susan half-smiled, half-sobbed as the next thought came. She had known this, of course, but only now did she truly understand it:

_He went willingly._

She seized the Bible again, spun through the pages, and read the words another time.

_“…to save the world through him.”_

Susan raised her eyes.

Could it be?

She thought of the crack in the Stone Table and the dawn-kissed sky and Aslan stepping forward in glory and His breath easing the grip of the Witch’s stone and the long-awaited spring and the golden years of Narnia and… joy.

Susan could see them. Peter sprawled on his throne, his head thrown back in laughter. Edmund’s elated whoops as he galloped with Philip across a green countryside. Lucy twirling in the summer sunshine, weaving crowns of flowers in the palace gardens. Even Caspian, trying to temper a beaming smile as Aslan proclaimed him king. 

She gripped the back of the pew in front of her, almost doubling over from the magnitude of the feeling. Because in spite of everything – the conflict and separation and, in one way or another, losing them all – she had been given so much _joy_. She had experienced so much _love_. And this God that the Bible spoke of loved the world – and loved _her_ – so much that He died unconditionally for it.

Susan stood and approached the altar. The burning candles tinged the air with a warm, waxy scent. She still bore wounds that ached beneath their scars, and others that were torn open and bleeding freely. But she knelt in front of the cross anyway, clasped her hands, and tried to decide what to call Him. 

In the end, she chose the Name that was most familiar.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, Aslan, if You’re there… forgive me.”

And here, at last, her heart tasted peace.


	16. RISE AND RISE AGAIN

Somewhere in the deepest recesses of the night, Susan returned home (though she wasn’t entirely sure how she had managed it). Sleep came like a benevolent conqueror. She slipped into a darkness without dreams, and when she woke again, it was to whispers of sunlight flickering against her eyelids. Outside her window came the faint grind of traffic and the rough scratch of autumn leaves. For the first few hazy moments of wakefulness, she couldn’t even remember who she was…

…until about four seconds later. That’s when she was sure her spine would snap.

She closed her eyes again. It still felt so foreign to pray.

_Please, Aslan. Be with me. I… I can’t do this alone._

With a deep exhale, she sat up.

The first thing she saw were the details. A loose thread in her coverlet. The fine sprinkle of dust on her mirror. The gleam of sun caught by her brass bedframe. The hem of a green skirt that peeked out of her wardrobe. The ink splotches on her desk. Her mind steadied, like dropping ice cubes into boiling water.

She showered and scrubbed her face thoroughly. Her eyes were tinged with red and burdened with dark circles. Her lips and cheeks were almost colorless. A cluster of zits occupied her chin. She brushed a thumb across the bridge of her nose and realized she had freckles.

She didn’t touch her make-up that morning.

The house was achingly still when she finally padded downstairs. A plate of Lucy’s chocolate chip cookies was on the kitchen table and her mouth went dry. There was a half-eaten lasagna dish in the refrigerator that her mother had made two nights before. Peter had left a textbook open in the sitting room; she didn’t get close enough to see what subject it was. Her father’s work shoes, freshly polished, were by the doormat. She collected the newspaper from the front step that Edmund would normally have claimed hours earlier and made herself read it, gathering facts from the black ink and clipped sentences until she thoroughly understood what had happened. The pages were speckled with tears by the time she was done.

Then, the doorbell began to ring.

It didn’t stop for nearly two days.

The police were first. Mercifully, Elliot Turner had identified the bodies when officers had been unable to reach Susan the previous evening. They offered her folders of reports, requested her signature on a handful of documents, and barely left her time to appreciate their efficiency.

That was the present.

The funeral planners were hushed and vaguely haunted, dressed in modest blacks and grays. Had she been in Narnia, Susan would have planned an event worthy of three monarchs. But on Earth, a place that had barely known them at all, very little felt required. So she requested a simple ceremony at the church that had given her refuge, and thought that her parents would have approved of her economical choice. With tears in her eyes, she chose the wood for their coffins; poplar for her mother and father, mahogany for Peter, pine for Edmund, and rosewood for Lucy.

That was the past.

Finally, there were the lawyers, armed with reams of thickly-worded paper and a seemingly infinite supply of pens. There were her parents’ wills to execute, properties to be transferred, and finances to arrange. She nearly fell out of her chair when they told her about her inheritance. It was enough to put her through university, and then some.

That was the future. Her future.

Elliot arrived on the third day.

He brought soup.

“I really can’t claim much credit,” he said in his quiet way. “My sister is the far better chef. I believe I added some oregano at her behest.”

Susan let herself smile, just a little. “Lucy liked to cook,” she said. It was almost a whisper. “Sometimes I would plan…” – _winter balls and harvest banquets and midsummer feasts and springtime galas_ – “…gatherings when we lived elsewhere and she always supervised the food.” Susan chuckled. “Well, not really supervising. She…” – _would race from the sprawling gardens down to the kitchens of Cair Paravel with fresh herbs for the savory dishes and rose petals to decorate the cakes and flit amongst the cooks, tasting and spicing and sweetening, getting flour in her hair and tomato sauce on her chin_ – “…helped make it herself, actually. She knew how to add spices to accent all the flavors perfectly, so that people would smile when they took a bite. It was an intuition, I suppose.”

She laughed. “I did everything else…” – _training the footmen, painstakingly designing and arranging the décor, enlisting Edmund to help corral Peter into wearing an appropriately fancy outfit_ – “…but I think the food was always the heart...” 

Susan stared over Elliot’s shoulder at a framed picture of her family resting on a shelf. At Lucy’s face.

“…and I never quite realized it.”

Elliot was looking at her with soft curiosity. 

Susan let out a flustered breath. “I’m sorry. I’m rambling.”

“No, not at all.” His voice was earnest, serious. “It’s a lovely memory. And I imagine Peter would have enjoyed helping her.”

She nodded as a memory flashed behind her eyes of Peter and Lucy when they had decided they wanted to have a snowball fight in the middle of summer. They had split the castle staff into teams and used fresh dough from the kitchens for their snowballs. They coaxed Edmund into heading up a team of his own, and when he and his strategic mind won the tournament handily, they chased him down the cliffs and into the sea spray. 

Susan, not wanting to risk her coiffure, had been the referee. 

Now, she wished that she had come back from that day sticky, bedraggled, and without a single strand of her hair still bound. 

Susan smoothed her skirt. “Lucy baked, too. She was probably the best at that. There are still some of her cookies in the kitchen. They’ve likely gone a bit stale, but… would you care to try one?” 

Elliot smiled. “Please.”

Susan laid out a minimalistic table for them and served Elliot’s soup. When she reached for the plate of cookies, she trembled violently. Elliot stopped her, covering one of her hands with his own.

“It’s all right. Allow me.”

Susan hurriedly swiped at her eyes.

When he bit into his cookie, he grinned. “Delicious.” His chewing was deliberate and appreciative. After he swallowed, Elliot paused. One thumb restlessly toyed with his cuff. 

“Susan…,” he said slowly. “I realize that we don’t know each other very well yet. There was the dance and then the next time we met, I was the one telling you about…” he gestured around, to the emptiness, “…this.” He sighed. “It’s rather an odd start. But all the same… I sincerely hope to be your friend.”

She looked at him steadily, roiling blue eyes meeting spring-soft green.

“Why?” she asked simply.

Elliot bit his lip, and when he answered, the gentleness that characterized his voice was laced with surety. “Because I think you need one rather desperately.”

Susan glanced down. 

And then she nodded. 

“You have no idea how right you are.”

-

The funeral was barely more than a duty, and Susan was swift to reclaim the privacy of her grief.

She sold her parents’ Boston house, squirreled her inheritance away in bank vaults, and found a utilitarian flat. She let the heady scent of flowers saturate the air and lined the walls with shelves of porcelain figurines and clusters of books. She kept reading the newspapers every morning to remind herself that the world still existed, that it was still churning on. 

But she read Lucy’s Bible far more. 

After a few weeks, she crept into the back pew of a church on a Sunday morning. She noticed Elliot sitting towards the front, cradling a hymn book as he sang. She could hear the ring of his tenor.

The next week, she sat with him. He couldn’t keep the smile from his lips, not for the whole service.

He visited her every few days. Sometimes they passed the afternoon in quiet conversation. He loved to read Twain; Susan, a Brit, liked Dickens. He had grown up on a farm and preferred the tranquility of forests and mountains to the sweat of the cities. When he told her how his brother had bled out in Iwo Jima, Susan saw Edmund lying on a sun-bleached Narnian battlefield. The day he heard the news was the day he decided he wanted to study medicine. 

Sometimes they went out. The third time that they found themselves strolling through a park Susan tucked her arm into his. He didn’t say a word. With such an unabashed grin, he didn’t need to.

Healing took time – of course it did – but slowly, Susan began to see color again. She saw the gleaming cobalt blue of Peter’s sky, and the variegated, jewel-toned greens of Edmund’s wood. When her daily walks took her down to the quays of Boston Harbor and she looked to the east, Susan saw how the silver light sprayed across Lucy’s sea. And the first time that she again noticed the soft, thick, golden warmth of the sun – _her_ sun – she nearly cried.

One day, when the wind scuffed salt off the Atlantic waves and blew it into Boston’s streets, she thought of Caspian. Revisiting the old anguish was like trying to put on a pair of heels that no longer fit. She found that now – after being shattered to the roots of her soul – she could smile at the memories they had shared and let the sea breezes soothe the last vestiges of heartache. 

Almost.

Looking at the smudged horizon line, Susan realized there was something she still needed to do.

She settled on the docks that evening with pen and paper in hand. She wrote as the tides sucked on the pilings and the seagulls squawked companionably. She didn’t stop until her sun began to dissolve into the waves.

Then, she sealed the letter in a bottle, leaned back, and hurled it into the sea.


	17. MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE

She waited a year before she applied to Yale. A few months later, she was moving to Connecticut. When Susan stepped into her new dormitory room, ready to meet her randomly-assigned roommate, her suitcase went crashing to the ground.

“What the –” A girl with blonde ringlets turned, showing the lean, elf-like features of her face. She was wearing a paint-splattered apron over an airy white gown. 

“Susan?” asked Blanche Meyer. “What – ” Susan could hear as the surprise in her voice iced over “ – what are you doing here?”

Susan crossed the space between them in three quick paces and hugged her. “Blanche, I’m so sorry.”

Several moments elapsed before Blanche tentatively hugged her back.

Susan met her eyes. “I might not deserve it but please… please let me try to explain.”

Susan’s hair had grown back out to just below her shoulder blades. Blanche gingerly caught one of her curls between her fingers. She met Susan’s eyes again.

“Ok.”

-

Susan Pevensie thrived at Yale where, at long last, she found her way back to journalism, becoming one of the Yale Daily News’ first female reporters. Early on in her career at the newspaper, when a male student insinuated that, as a woman, she wouldn’t be able to succeed in such a rigorous profession as journalism, Susan – the queen of Narnia who had fought wars, wooed royals, and run castles – wrote an op-ed lampooning his “outmoded, unsubstantiated, and pathetically illogical assumption that women are any less intellectually capable than their male peers.” She continued, fingers once again hammering the keys of her typewriter like flying catapults, “Perhaps the gentleman in question would care to take a history course at this university and familiarize himself with the lives of Cleopatra, Queen Esther, Mary Magdalene, Elizabeth I, Abigail Adams, Harriet Tubman, and Marie Curie (among others) before revising his views to align a little more closely with reason and reality.” 

Her colleagues and classmates quickly came to know her as both kind and uncompromisingly tenacious. She started on a track to earn a double degree in English and political science to supplement her journalistic work. She and Elliot, now courting in earnest, met every Sunday when, after going to church, they could pass long afternoon picnicking by the lakeside or tucked away in libraries sharing Dickens and Twain. And unconsciously or not, Susan lived for each of her dead siblings. For Peter, she took a few classes in science and fell in love with the precision of chemistry; for Edmund, philosophy, where she found both challenge and affirmation for her burgeoning faith; and for Lucy, she reached into the fine arts. Eventually, for her final assignment in the course, Blanche helped her realize a painting of a gleaming white castle and a wild blue sea. Blanche couldn't understand - and Susan didn't explain - why the last thing she did was to add a single, solitary lamppost snuggled in the distance.

She never did wear blue, at least not the lighter shades. Not the ones that shimmered like pastel ice. Instead, she favored fiercer colors – fabrics of emerald and sapphire and deep amethyst – to remind herself that it takes courage to be gentle.

-

Caspian’s steps left soft prints as he walked barefoot down the beach, following a line of damp sand that was half tide-kissed and half sun-dried. The hem of his cloak skimmed lightly across the thin, glassy sheet of lingering water. The sea churned on his left and Cair Paravel, perched on a clifftop like an alabaster gull about to take flight, stretched into the skies high above on his right. The restored castle would be the crowning jewel of his reign. 

More than ten years had passed since Lilliandil’s death and Caspian wore his age well. Frosty strands of silver whispered in his hair and the smile lines at the corners of his eyes were deeper than the furrows on his brow. The fire that simmered in his brown eyes had not guttered, not even fractionally. Frequent walks alongside the restless sea had become a habit in recent years as Rilian took on more and more of the king’s daily duties. It was a relief to let the rhythm of the waves massage his mind as it grew ever-heavier with memories and time.

Today, his eye caught on something that glinted in the water. It threw off flashes of light as waves like mischievous cat paws took swipes and swats. Hooking his cloak over one arm, he took a few steps into the fringes of the tide and made a grab for it. His fingers closed around the neck of a bottle.

Tucking his flying hair behind his ears, Caspian turned it over in his hands. Its glass was nearly black with water-wear and fiercely barnacled. He ran a finger across the contours of letters; _Coca Cola_. 

Were the mermaids playing a practical joke?

After a few tries, he managed to pry off the cork. The curled edge of a paper peeped at him. Gingerly, he extracted it from its tiny sanctuary and folded open the creases. 

The first word he saw was his own name. Seconds later, the bottle had tumbled from limp fingers and Caspian was stumbling back onto the drier sand before his legs gave out. He pressed the page open against his knees.

_Caspian,_

_You won’t read this, I know. It may take centuries but sooner or later, water will seep into the bottle, the paper will rot, and the sea will swallow these words. (Not to mention that I’ll be throwing this into the wrong ocean, in the wrong world.) So maybe it’s some tiny part of Lucy that compels me to write it anyway. Faith never came easily to me. It was hard-fought and hard-won and I’ll be honest: I still fight for it every day._

_I suppose the first things to say are the most obvious ones: I hope you are well and that Narnia is safe. I hope Calormen isn’t being any more perverse than usual. (Assuming their kings still descend from the same line, and assuming the generations share a common sweet tooth, I recommend serving huckleberry ice cream should a diplomatic meeting become contentious – which is to say, at every meeting. It did wonders to soothe their perpetually ruffled feathers whenever Edmund and I held negotiations.) I hope that Cair Paravel stands tall and proud again, the way we saw it in our dream. I always thought the southwestern tower would be marvelous with a larger window, not just arrow slits. Imagine the sunsets you could watch. Most of all, I hope that you are happy._

_I realized that there is something I never told you – not properly. So, for lack of any other opportunity, I’ll say it now: I love you. I tried for a long time to forget that and the effort only hurt me more. But I do. I’ve learned that the heart is an extraordinarily stubborn creature. You can muffle it, muzzle it, beat it, and bind it, but it will never forget what it has loved. It will never forget once it has been shown a thing of beauty. And however quietly, however clandestinely, and however much it may defy the edicts of the rational self, the heart will never stop hoping. If it did, that would signal a wound far greater than separation or distance: a poison hidden in what it believed to be love. (I know because I nearly lost Narnia when I convinced myself that there was poison in the love I found there. I could not have been more wrong.) What we had was good, and knowing how we have loved each other gives me strength. I can carry that strength without needing to lean on it. I can love you – and love Narnia – and also love everything I experience here._

_I plan to live this life well. There are so many problems on Earth and so many people with greater burdens than I. I’ll be damned if I don’t use my life to help them. But it’s funny… in the end, you were right. I am a queen. And I am gentle. I know that now. I know that I can be in this world even if I’m not of it. That’s one of the gifts that faith has given me._

_I hope – and pray – that we meet again in some place beyond death or dreaming._

_Until then, with love,_

_Susan_

Caspian let out a long breath and looked out past the waves, past the clouds, towards that elusive, never-quite-visible place where earth fuses with sky. Then he smiled.

“I love you, too.”


	18. SUNSET AND SNOW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a beast to put together but it's FINALLY HERE and I'm SO EXCITED to share!
> 
> Low-level warning for imagery involving coffins that some readers might find disturbing.

_Shrieking…_

_Pleading…_

_Begging…_

_She had to get them out…_

_She ran to the mahogany coffin as Peter’s voice bellowed from within, tried with all her strength to lift the lid…_

_Locked._

_Adrenaline electric inside her… Stumbling, scrambling footsteps… Fat, useless fingers…_

_The mahogany coffin would not open... Nor would the coffin of pine…_

_They moaned her name._

_“Susan... Susan!”_

_She pounded on the lids._

_They were dying. Suffocating._

_“Let me out!” yelled Edmund, coughing, and she had never heard him sound so frightened before._

_Running to the rosewood coffin… smooth wood, sheen of pink… gross, gilded tomb… Had she chosen this?_

_“Please, Susan, please,” her sister whimpered. “I’m sc-scared of the dark…”_

_“LUCY!” she screamed._

She woke thrashing in the sheets, her entire body shaking, the hair at her temples slicked with sweat. Blanche tried to comfort her, but Susan still saw them in their locked coffins, trapped, slowly choking on the darkness…

Elliot, finishing medical studies at Harvard, drove through the night from Massachusetts.

“What can I do?” he asked as he hugged her.

She looked at him. 

And, in 1949, maybe it was utterly audacious of her to ask, but –

“Stay,” she whispered.

He blinked.

Then he nodded.

Elliot held her for the rest of the night, her head resting on his shoulder, and when dawn began to warm the sky, she whispered the truth of Narnia to him. 

By the time she was done, the air sagged with the weight of the tale.

“Do you believe me?” she asked quietly, her ear pressed against his heartbeat.

For several moments, she could only feel his breathing. Then he tightened his grip on her shoulders and pressed a kiss into her hair.

“I believe you.”

As the light intensified, a lithe movement from outside her window caught Susan’s eye. She turned to see the lean silhouette of a cat, its orange fur wreathed in ruby, just before it slipped away.

-

Susan Pevensie married Elliot Turner on a spring day in the radiance of her setting sun. It was a small group (mostly Elliot’s family) that gathered in the church – Susan’s church – to witness their vows as the heavens bled fire into the sky. Susan’s white satin gown gleamed with the rich ruby, emerald, and sapphire hues that poured in through the stained glass windows. Elliot was haloed in gold, as if whispers of a crown rested on his dark hair. And for once in her life, as she reached the altar and took his hand, Susan had no doubts about anything.

At the celebration later that evening, Elliot made a point of introducing Uncle Jack, a distant relative who hailed from Belfast. He was a rotund, bookish little man with a quick mind and a flashing eye.

“Uncle Jack is a writer,” Elliot told her, his arm settled comfortably around her waist. “The story you told me that night in New Haven – I wager he would enjoy it enormously.”

“Really?” asked Susan, not unkindly, even as she raised an eyebrow.

Uncle Jack raised his eyebrows right back at her. “When I was ten, I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so.” His lips quirked up. “Now that I am fifty, I read them openly!”

Susan nudged her husband playfully. “You didn’t tell me anything about this idea.”

He gave a guilty little smile. “I’m sorry. But in my defense, that’s because it’s only about five minutes old. I didn’t expect Jack to turn up, but when I saw him, it all just… came together in my mind.” The excitement began to show in his voice. “You have an incredible story and Jack has a skillset that could help you share it. You could inspire so many people.” 

Susan considered. It would hurt to immerse herself in some of these memories - but almost as soon as the thought appeared, she realized how very little pain scared her now. Peter and Edmund and Lucy were already immortalized in Narnian memory, but what if she could do the same for them on Earth? What if people could learn from them, from their weaknesses as much as their strengths? How Peter struggled with his restless pride but also how he leaned on his stout heart. How Edmund grew from a selfish child into a fair and beloved ruler. How Lucy showed them all the enduring power of love and hope. And maybe, just maybe – if she poured her heart into the telling – they might see the echoes and undercurrents of a real, living faith in the story just as Susan eventually had.

She would be woven into this story as well, she realized. How would they label her? As the doubter? The skeptic? The materialist that she used to be?

Then a fresh thought. Maybe in her, many would see themselves.

Maybe that would be one of the most powerful things of all to share.

“Susan?” asked Elliot. “What do you think?”

Susan squeezed his hand and smiled at Uncle Jack. “I must warn you, sir… this is far more than a fairy tale.” 

His eyes twinkled. “I know.”

-

Tea with Uncle Jack became a weekly occurrence. Susan started small, with details like crisp snow and freezing rivers and skies freckled with icy stars. Welcoming the memories back into her conscious mind – letting them _breathe again_ – was like massaging away a decade-old muscle cramp. She began to bring pages upon pages of handwritten notes to their meetings, the sheets ripped in places by the furor of her flying pen. Uncle Jack came armed with a notebook and pencil, and with his ever-patient help, she put Narnia back together. 

Later, once winter had been thoroughly recalled, she started to dream about warm, sweet evenings of dusky gold and feisty pink blossoms and churning, chattering brooks; of picnics with the Beavers and Mr. Tumnus dancing around a midsummer fire and lissome mermaids laughing in the sea. These she found particular delight in sharing with Uncle Jack.

Shortly after her wedding, Susan took a position at the New York Times where she worked her way up from staff writer to editor. She marched in the streets for civil rights and ran editorials on culture. She questioned leaders with a ferocity that made her feared in capitals around the world. She and Elliot spear-headed efforts to care for the homeless in her community and both reserved a particular passion for veteran advocacy. Years later, Susan accepted a professorship at her alma mater and organized grant funding for women entering journalism and politics. She lived with the confidence of the Magnificent, the discernment of the Just, the bravery of the Valiant, and the fortitude of her own Gentleness. 

But as Susan and her husband grew older, she found the most joy in her church. She thought of Lucy when she baked cakes for celebrations, of Edmund when she discussed theology in Bible studies, and of Peter when she taught her weekly Sunday school class. She and Elliot never had children, but sometimes they served as foster parents. Occasionally, she let the children braid the long dark hair that once again fell to her waist. And sometimes, after she had tucked them in and helped them say a bedtime prayer, she read to them from a book called _The Chronicles of Narnia_.

-

Sunset blazed over the Narnian countryside. Caspian watched from the recently-finished window of the southwest tower. Distant echoes of merry chatter and carriage wheels rose up from the courtyard, prompting him to stretch languidly. Rilian had assumed the kingship some months ago – or perhaps it had already been a year. No more official appearances were required of him, Aslan be thanked, but Caspian – with his great love for the Narnian people – was still contemplating a cameo. 

Well, more than contemplating, if he was being honest. He had already dressed for the occasion, complete with a gold crown. It was quite fun, he found, to play the mischievous king emeritus.

A thread of strikingly cold wind – unnaturally at odds with the season – whispered past. Caspian straightened as the hair on the back of his neck rose. He leaned closer to the open window… 

And promptly drew back as flurry of snowflakes skipped across his cheek. He turned to watch them fly into the room, his brow deeply furrowed as histories of white witches and hundred-year winters surfaced leeringly.

When he looked back to the window, his eyes grew wide enough to crack the bone of their sockets.

The chamber which had previously crowned the top of the southwest tower now sat on the ground and the world beyond was – 

White. 

-

Elliot had taught her to love the woods. Before the cancer had stolen him away from her – only logical, Susan supposed, that cancer would kill one of its fiercest foes – they had gone on hikes nearly every weekend. Now, five years later, in between traveling, teaching, and writing, she found herself drawn to them more and more frequently – after all, here she could find every shade of green ever held in Elliot’s eyes. 

Today, the green was muffled by a thin blanket of snow. Susan listened to the dull crunch of her bootsteps against the stiff, wintery silence. She had little doubt now that it was her destiny and her burden to always be the last one left.

She pulled Lucy’s Bible – loved and worn almost beyond recognition – from her pocket and turned to a line in Matthew 28. It had been circled and underlined many times.

_“And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”_

Susan sighed.

As she walked, her surroundings gradually changed. It began to snow thickly, and the trees grew denser. Wilder. Then she noticed petals – the pale pink garments of cherry blossoms – swirling in the air alongside the snowflakes. Susan paused. She pocketed the Bible and stretched a hand out to let them play across her palm.

Cherry trees did not bloom in winter.

She glanced down to check that she still followed a path and had to fight to hold back a scream.

Instead of the outdoor clothes she’d chosen that morning, she wore a blue gown that whispered of baby’s breath. One that she had not seen in decades. (She felt the Bible hidden in a pocket among the skirt folds.)

Her heart rate accelerated rapidly. Susan turned on her heel, intending to go back the way she had come, only to be confronted with a fearsome cluster of brambles.

“ _Dammit_ ,” she muttered.

Her heart beat all the more furiously as she hiked up her skirts and slowly resumed her walk, moving forward through the snowflakes and petals that mingled in the air. Something akin to dread stewed in her stomach.

Eventually, after perhaps another ten minutes of walking, the path stopped at the edge of a clearing. Blades of grass poked warily up out of the accumulated snow and cherry trees ringed the perimeter. They were at the height of their glory, with each branch balancing clusters of blossoms like trembling fireworks. Ice kissed every petal with the utmost gentleness, so that the trees sparkled in the soft sun with a magnificence that would have been unachievable on Earth. The effect was intensified by those petals that roamed freely across the breezes, chasing the snowflakes around the clearing in an ethereal waltz that was punctuated by glints and sparks.

She moved into the open space, held in rapture by the dance, her gaze upturned and fingers outstretched as she watched. She briefly contemplated how much Lucy would have loved it and smiled.

So entranced was she that Susan had to stifle a yelp when she heard a rustling noise nearby.

She refocused her attention on the trees opposite. “Who’s there?” she called. 

There was a sharp intake of breath and a pause before a voice responded.

“ _Susan_?”

The shadows between the trees shifted.

And then, on the other side of the clearing, she saw him.

Tall. Dark. Magnificent in a shining, silvery-blue tunic and a heavy velvet cloak. Strong under the crown of gold that rested on his brow. 

He was every bit a king.

And he was there. 

_Staring at her._


	19. GRACE UNENDING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tremendous thank you to all my readers who have stuck with me on this (slightly longer than anticipated, hehe) journey. Your kudos, your comments, and your support have been the force that has propelled this story towards completion. We're nearly there. :)

Susan felt her knees hit the ground. Hard. 

“No,” she muttered, and then again, louder, until it was a scream. “No. _No_. NO!” She pounded the snow with her fists, tearing wildly at the blue dress. “ _I can’t do this again!_ ”

She heard Caspian’s running steps and then his arms were around her, clutching, cradling. But she pushed him away as her pulse filled her ears like a rising tide. 

“I made a life!” she shouted as Caspian fell back in a heap, his cloak and boots dusty with snow and petals. “I made a life in my world and _it didn’t have you in it! _” She hoped Aslan was listening, wherever He was. The sobs were beginning to choke her. Doubling over, she watched her tears fall and burn through the frosty ground.__

__Caspian’s face had gone white. His eyes held the despair of every dying star in the universe._ _

“Susan…” 

Every nerve recoiled, tucking in tight against her spine. 

“ _Don’t_.” She didn’t look at him. “It’s just another trick – another fantasy – and I can’t – ” 

“Susan,” he said again, and he was so close to breaking. So close to collapse. His voice betrayed everything. 

She heard his gloved fingers clench, then the snow crunch as he began to move slightly closer to her. A shaking breath as he stopped himself. 

“Susan, _please_. I – ” The words halted abruptly, as if his throat had swollen shut. 

She looked at him now. Every part of his being bled anguish, from his hunched spine to his dead, downcast eyes. A tiny, bitter hint of a smile twisted one corner of his mouth as he stared at the snow. 

“I got your note,” he whispered. A shaking hand reached into the folds of his cloak. Susan’s stomach somersaulted as he withdrew a familiar piece of paper, now cherished into fragility by a thousand re-readings. 

He looked up, holding it out to her, chest heaving. “Finding this... after everything… it – ” His voice cracked harshly. He shook his head, swallowing. “It brought me peace. Made everything feel… whole.” 

“I never believed you’d read it,” she whispered to the ground. 

She could feel Caspian’s gaze on her. “Yes you did.” 

__Susan exhaled with a shudder, balling a fist into the snow._ _

_Of course she had._

The snowflakes shifted. She heard Caspian pull off one of his gloves before, with the utmost gentleness, he laid a hand over hers. Bare skin met like exposed wires. 

__“I have loved you for decades.” They were close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body heat. “I still love you.”_ _

__A strangled sort of croak was all Susan could manage as she raised her head. Tiny snowflakes spun in agitated flurries. Caspian’s crown had tumbled off and she watched them settle in his hair like shredded diamonds._ _

__She reached out with her free hand, letting her fingers touch his glittering hair. She sensed tiny pricks as the shards melted instantly against her skin. Slowly, gingerly – as if she feared he might dissolve into nothingness under the pressure of her fingertips – her hand came down to his cheek and their eyes locked. His breath was heavy in the little air between them._ _

__She leaned in, fingers balancing on the sharp cut of his jaw. Caspian’s dark eyes flicked down to her lips, and she wasn’t sure if the rush of heat she felt was his breath on her face or from somewhere within her._ _

__His hand tightened around hers when she hesitated, their faces centimeters apart._ _

__Susan waited, watching the snowflakes dance across his eyelashes. Waited for everything to snap as she noticed a feather-soft flush rising in his cheeks. Waited to be whiplashed away._ _

__But the moment held, raw and taut and tightening as the seconds tolled by._ _

“ _I love you_ ,” Caspian murmured, the words so soft that they were nearly lost in the hush of the snow. He moved fractionally and their foreheads rested together. 

So she found the strength to surrender. 

“I love you, too,” she whispered back, and in the next instant, she pressed her lips against his. 

__Nothing had ever tasted sweeter._ _

She moaned softly as Caspian met her with fervent eagerness. His arms twined their way around her waist, tugging her tight against his body as he kissed her. Susan could sense his yearning – could sense the exquisitely uncomfortable warmth that burned low in her own belly – so she pressed towards him, deepening the embrace. She felt Caspian smile. 

__Susan was close to panting when they finally broke apart. “That was…”_ _

__Caspian half-smirked, eyes twinkling, but his voice was breathless. “Worth the wait. Almost.”_ _

Susan laughed, and oh, it was _delicious_ to laugh with him, even as she realized in the same moment how utterly intolerable any amount of distance between them was. So Susan hugged him as she had never done before – squeezing, grasping, clawing for grip – her face buried in his shoulder and her fists twisted in his cloak. 

“You can’t leave me again,” she whispered. “ _Please_.” 

__He leaned into her. “Never.”_ _

__Susan breathed him in, smelling pine woods and citrus and, ever so faintly, echoes of a salty sea now permanently infused in his skin._ _

__She smiled into his shoulder. “You’ve spent a lifetime on the ocean.”_ _

__Caspian chuckled. “The Narnians call me Seafarer.”_ _

__“And his voyages took him even unto the brink of My country.”_ _

__The adrenaline rush nearly ripped through her skin. Susan and Caspian flew to their feet, whirling towards the source of the voice. And there, amidst the trees ringing the clearing, she beheld –_ _

__A lion._ _

“ _Aslan_ ,” Susan whispered. 

An entire spectrum of emotion tore through her in the space of a heartbeat, from the rage she thought she had forgotten that came roaring into her stomach to a transcendent joy that bloomed richly in her chest. It left her shaking. 

__He padded forward, His steps eliciting hushed sighs from the snow. Susan gripped Caspian’s hand._ _

__Aslan settled before them, his golden coat radiant in the brisk, wintery light, and for a heartbeat, everything froze. Even the snowflakes paused, quivering, as Susan’s vision narrowed down to just Aslan’s glittering eyes. And despite a lifetime spent challenging the most powerful leaders in her world – despite her own memory of how she commanded poise and authority as an enthroned queen – Susan could find no words. No words to capture the torrent of feelings that clashed like oil and water within her. No words that could express one of them without unrighteously eliminating the others._ _

__She jumped when Caspian spoke._ _

__“Aslan,” he began quietly. “Why did You do it? Why have we spent so long apart? Why has this not come sooner?”_ _

Susan ached at the thought of their splintered moments. _So much sooner._

“Neither of you were ready. You both had your own journeys to take; paths that you could only travel apart. Caspian – ” His golden gaze settled on the Narnian king “– do you remember what I told you once about the heart and the mind?” 

__“Like the wings of a bird,” said Caspian._ _

__Aslan inclined his head. “And you have learned to unite them, my Son. You have guarded Narnia with a keen mind and steadfast heart. Your passions are anchored and nurtured through duty to your kingdom and to your son. The flame of your youth has settled into the rich, steady blaze which burns in the hearth of wisdom.”_ _

__Susan raised her eyebrows. “You have a son?”_ _

__Caspian smiled and squeezed her shoulders. “You’d like him.”_ _

__Aslan turned to Susan._ _

__“Susan,” He said, and His voice held so many things. Warmth and pain and gladness and eternity. Susan wondered if His eyes were always so bright. “My dear Child, you have done so well. You have brought My Light into your world.”_ _

__Susan felt a familiar pressure building behind her eyes._ _

__“And I was always with you, even in your darkest times. Even when you rejected Me. Even when you hated Me. I watched your struggle. I felt your pain, your emptiness, and your despair, and I wept. I rejoiced when you came to Me again.”_ _

__The tears overflowed of their own accord._ _

__“There was a cat,” she said weakly. “An orange cat. That was You, wasn’t it?”_ _

__Aslan purred richly._ _

Susan stepped forward, away from Caspian’s warmth. Walking slowly, she approached the great lion and extended a hand. Carefully, gingerly, she rested it in His mane. He leaned His head into her, and the thick, barrel-chested purr rose. A sob escaped from somewhere within her and finally – _finally_ – Susan hugged Him. 

__“I love You, Aslan,” she whispered._ _

__“And I have always loved you, dear one.”_ _

__Susan buried her face in His mane. After a few seconds, there was a light pressure on her back, and then Caspian had joined the embrace._ _

__“I love you,” she said to him._ _

__He pressed a kiss into her hair as Aslan’s purr went on, strong and solid. The three of them stood together among the whispers of snow for many perfect moments._ _

__Eventually, she heard Aslan’s voice again, rumbling under her ear. “Children. Look.”_ _

__Somewhat reluctantly, Susan raised her head. Her gaze skimmed across the snowy cherry trees. The woods were thick and dense, glazed with faint sunlight. She noticed that not just their blossoms, but their branches, too, were laced with ice._ _

__Then, her eye caught movement and suddenly, from among the frost-sparkled leaves, a figure emerged._ _

__-_ _

__A white lady approached them, even more radiant than she had been in life._ _

__“Lilliandil,” Caspian breathed. Her gown was a shade lighter than the snow. Every strand of her silver hair glistened with starlight, and the snowflakes were invisible where they landed on her skin. His tears came unbidden from new joy and old pain, and he ran to embrace her as she came into the clearing._ _

__“Lilliandil,” he said again. He held her slim form close as petals caught in her hair. “Our son is beautiful.”_ _

__“Rilian,” she said in a tender murmur, as if she were just reencountering a memory. “How is he?”_ _

__“He has never stopped missing you. He loves you so much.”_ _

__“I know,” she said. “I watch over him. Would you tell him that?”_ _

__“I will.”_ _

__“You have my love,” she said. “You both do. Always.”_ _

__“And you have mine,” said Caspian._ _

__“Be happy,” she told him. Her extraordinary blue eyes pierced his in fierce sincerity. “I want you to be so, so happy. I hope I gave you some.”_ _

Caspian’s eyes widened and he grasped her hands tightly. “Lilliandil, _of course you did_. You saved me. I was in a dark, _broken_ place and you lifted me up. You loved me unconditionally and I…” 

__He swallowed._ _

__“I didn’t repay that. Not fully. And I’m sorry.”_ _

She placed a hand on his cheek. “But you tried to. I saw that, and felt it.” She chuckled with great gentleness. “Your heart has always been your highest commander, Caspian, and it decided where its true allegiance lay long before we met. I knew that – ” she glanced at Aslan briefly, smiling “– and still I chose to marry you. _Chose_. I have not, and will not ever, regret that choice.” 

__Caspian bowed his head. “I was never worthy of you.”_ _

__The creamy skin of her cheeks turned distantly rose. “I do not think that is true. Besides –” with a finger on his chin, she raised his head “– love is not about worth.”_ _

__She looked into Caspian’s eyes. “It is about acceptance, and trust, and rising from weakness to seek strength.”_ _

Caspian hugged her again. “ _Thank you_ ,” he whispered. 

__She squeezed him lightly before stepping back. “I must go.” She looked at Susan and then back at Caspian. “May you both have happiness.”_ _

__Then Lilliandil turned and walked back into the trees, slipping away._ _

__-_ _

__Susan took Caspian’s hand._ _

__“She seems… extraordinary.”_ _

__Caspian watched the trees. “Yes. She was.”_ _

__Susan looked up at him. She felt no jealousy or resentment. Those sentiments belonged to a girl who drowned in dances and suffocated herself with make-up. Instead, an aching empathy uncurled in her chest._ _

__“How did she die?”_ _

__“A snake bite.” His voice wavered slightly. “My child had to grow up without a mother.”_ _

__She interwove their fingers. “I’m so sorry.”_ _

__She listened as Caspian steadied his breathing. Eventually, he asked, “Did you ever marry?”_ _

__It was Susan’s turn to nod. “I did. His name was Elliot.”_ _

__“Tell me about him.”_ _

__Susan swallowed and gave a wry little chuckle as she remembered her husband. “He was much better than me. He never thought of himself – always others first. Whenever I started to get cynical, he would remind me of all the good that existed, and of all the possibilities we had to create more good. He had the gentlest spirit I’d ever encountered.”_ _

__Caspian kissed her knuckles. “You are also gentle. Perhaps that is what drew you together.”_ _

__Susan smiled grimly. “There was a time, in my youth, when I most assuredly was not. But since then, I have tried to be.” She laughed as she thought of Elliot. “He was still better at it though.”_ _

__“But he is no longer alive?”_ _

__“No.”_ _

__Caspian hugged her. “I’m sorry.” His voice brightened when he asked, “What about Peter and Edmund and Lucy? How are they? What incredible things have they done in your world?”_ _

__Susan’s throat promptly closed up. No matter how many times she did it, revisiting this wound had never gotten any easier. The tears came all over again. Caspian saw them instantly._ _

__“What is it? What’s wrong?”_ _

__She shook her head. “They died, Caspian.” Her voice cracked. “They all died.” It had been years since she had last said it outright._ _

__“Dead?” Caspian repeated incredulously. “How? When?”_ _

__“A train wreck,” she managed. “It happened not long after Lucy and Edmund were last in Narnia.” She was briefly overwhelmed by the memories of her grief. Of an empty street and a cold lamppost. Caspian drew her close as she began to tremble violently._ _

__Susan had nearly forgotten Aslan’s presence in the clearing, so she jumped when He spoke her name._ _

__“Susan. Raise your eyes.”_ _

__She followed His gaze back to the same trees from which Lilliandil had emerged. Three figures, still obscured by shadow, moved forward._ _

__Susan squinted as they came into the light, not daring to believe._ _

__A young man with broad shoulders, golden hair, and a rumpled shirt._ _

__A teenage boy with a neat tie, a book under his arm, and spectacles in his breast pocket._ _

__And, trailing just behind them, a not-so-little girl with bows in her copper curls and a smile that could make the stars sing._ _


End file.
